


Within the Balance

by mudkipwrites



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Across The Galaxy, Action/Adventure, Alien/Human Relationships, Art by Sempaiko, Chiss Biology, Chiss culture, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Everybody Is Queer In Star Wars, F/M, Family Feels, Fix-It Ending, Flashbacks, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Multiple Narrators, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27534943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: “An enemy will almost never be anything except an enemy; but an adversary will sometimes become an ally. There is a cost, of course...but in all such situations, the calculation is straightforward: whether or not the potential gain is worth the potential loss. And the warrior must never forget that there are more involved in this equation than themselves and their adversary. Sometimes, all of the universe may hang in the balance.”((Thrawn & Ezra's wild-space road-trip to Csilla.))
Relationships: Ezra Bridger/Vah’nya, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Comments: 234
Kudos: 139





	1. Thrawn

**Author's Note:**

> I know that there are lots of great takes out there on Ezra & Thrawn's adventures, and so I wanted to add mine to the pile. Cheers to multiple cakes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stranded and injured, Thrawn forges an uneasy alliance with Ezra Bridger. As he faces his future, he longs for his past.

* * *

**ONE | THRAWN**

* * *

_Out of the hazy, yellow-gold fog emerges a herd of flickering purrgil._ _Their tendrils, illumined with holo-blue light, blink ominously in Lothal's atmosphere. Before them the battered, hexagonal shape of the Ghost slices through the hazy air. It leads the charge upon the Imperial dome, followed by an unfolding cloud of rebellion starfighters._

_And each and every one of his carefully-laid plans are spiraling outside of his control._

_In the end, it doesn’t matter that he’d succeeded in outsmarting the Emperor. In the end, it doesn’t even matter how much he’d sacrificed in the lengths that he’d gone to send Eli Vanto away. Because, in the end, he’s trapped here alone, starting down the sheer, chaotic power of a skywalker._ _Through the gloom, Ezra Bridger reaches towards Thrawn._ _His blue eyes are blazing with determination, and his gloved fingers tremble from the effort of using the Force. In his gesture, he sees the spectre of the boy’s fallen mentor, Jarrus; in it, he sees someone far older than a child from Lothal, but a representative of the fearsome, relentless hope of the rebellion._ _And the doom that it spells out for the Empire._

_There are no lasting words for negotiation._

_There are no more moves, no more spaces left upon his chessboard. Against all odds, Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo has allowed himself to be out-maneuvered; and now, he is standing upon the edge of destruction. Heart rising into his throat, chest clenching with fear, he snarls as the purrgil tendrils surround him. As their hyperjump signals begin to pulse, Thrawn grimly accepts his inevitable fate:_

_That what happens next shall happen to both of them._

* * *

When he awakens, he’s gasping for breath. 

_“Quiet!”_ hisses an unfamiliar voice through the gloom. “Or you’re gonna bring that worm monster back to us again!”

Still hazy from asleep, Grand Admiral Thrawn becomes dimly aware of his surroundings. He breathes in the thick, wet heat of the jungle; he hears the soft, pattering fall of the rain; he tastes the strange, heavy fragrances of wet moss, foreign fauna, and fresh, upturned earth. He _also_ notices the set of hands pressing down on his shoulders, urging him into muffled silence, and the itchy, restrictive feeling of bandages wrapped tightly around his aching chest. 

_“...Where?”_ he murmurs, head swimming with effort. “What happened…?” 

As Thrawn grasps for a foothold of understanding, a long-abandoned phrase surfaces within his mind: _Xishu azwane._ _Exile._ The words twist in his gut, stirring something terribly alone and yet familiar. A feeling of dread settles heavily behind his navel, his ribcage burning as he hurriedly sucks in breath. _But no, that isn’t right, either._ For when he’d been exiled, he'd been alone.

And right now, he is not. He is with... _Ezra Bridger._

At the name of his enemy, it all comes rushing back. The Empire, and his dogged pursuit of the rebels. The purrgil, and their perilous hyperspace travel. The crash, and surviving to wake up wounded and alone. The realization that he has _lost_ \--lost, both in his battle, and now, in location--with only the young, hostile skywalker as his survival companion and guide. 

Slowly, Thrawn turns his head. He focuses his vision on Bridger, hazy with effort. 

“My apologies,” he croaks, making an effort to keep his voice quiet. “I did not realize that I was causing a disturbance.” He scans the boy’s face for signs of imminent threat, but he cannot sense any means of aggression. The Force-user looks, if anything, _tired._ His cobalt-blue eyes are bruised dark with exhaustion, and his young eyes are lined with creases meant for a far greater age. “Did I rouse you from your sleep?” 

Bridger’s mouth quirks. He looks as though under different circumstances he might’ve laughed. 

“Yeah, right. You think that I’m gonna _close my eyes_ when I’ve got _Grand Admiral Thrawn_ less than five feet away from me?” Bridger snorts. There is a bite in his tone, but Thrawn also thinks that he perceives something like human concern. “Not likely. For all I know, that injury of yours has already healed, and you’re just waiting around for the right opportunity for me to be disarmed.” 

Rain water drips in the dark cavern around them. In spite of his words, Bridger had found a shelter to protect _both_ of them against the foreign night and its various, hostile creatures.

“I assure you,” Thrawn replies, “my people have no such capabilities.” Typically he would be loath to reveal such information about himself or his secretive race to one of his known enemies. But then, _typically,_ he would _not_ be stranded on a strange jungle planet, without any kind of working communications or means of interstellar transportation. 

“Pity,” Bridger comments. He brushes water off of his shoulder, then scoots out of the cave’s dripping range. “You’re alright, though? Sounded like you were in pain.” 

Internally, Thrawn winces. One could mark this as yet another failure against him. Always doing whatever he can to follow the way of subdued emotion, he’s frustrated to be in such a transparent place. To be in this place with an _enemy_ in the first place. “Perhaps,” he admits. “The wounds that I sustained from the crash are more...significant than I would prefer.” 

Again, Bridger gives a snort of derisive laughter. 

“You can say that again,” he replies. “If I hadn’t been there to revive you, you’d _still_ be a tangled, tentacled disaster.” Bridger shivers, looping his hands about his bent knees. His frame is long and lanky with youth, as though he’d recently been pulled through a space-taffy stretcher in the process of looming adulthood. “Thought that the purrgil had crushed you under there. Didn’t think that it was going to work, pushing that breath back into your chest.” 

Thrawn scowls. Fortunately, he has no memory of his rescue. Unfortunately _,_ he can put enough together to know that he is indebted to the young skywalker. 

The purrgil had crashed. Or, at least, _one_ of them had. It had been a bright, burning whirlwind of color and chaos: he’d had lost consciousness when they’d first lept into hyperspace, and then again on the pressure of atmospheric impact. To make matters worse, there had been some kind of creature waiting for them--something Bridger had called a _worm monster._ If he was at his best, Thrawn would be able to name such a creature with instant recall of his galactic compendium, even without seeing the beast. 

But, as it is, he is not at his best. Given the headache and blurred vision, he’s fighting the lost battle with a concussion. 

“And I thank you for that,” he says once again. “It is more than I would have expected. And certainly more than I would have done for yourself if our situations had been reversed.” The admission is unpleasant, but there is no need for him to fabricate truths. Even if he were to attempt an empty-bodied falsehood, he knows that the Force-user would feel out the lie. “And while I am grateful, I yet remain uncertain as to why you did it.” 

“You and me both,” Bridger mutters. He watches as the tan-skinned human shudders again, hands pulling his knees tightly into his chest. 

It occurs to him then that the skywalker might be in some modicum of physical danger. In the nature of warm-blooded, sapien creatures, his ability to withstand significant fluctuations of temperature were limited to the less-hostile extremes. There was that one occasion, he remembers fondly, when he and Vanto had--

_No._

“Perhaps I should start a fire,” Thrawn offers. He knows that it might not be wise, and that it might attract unfamiliar and hostile creatures to their location. But he also knows that he cannot allow his singular source of assistance to perish before sunrise. _The rebel might not trust me,_ he thinks to himself, _and I might not trust him. But for the time being, we will have to rely upon one another. Otherwise, we will not survive._

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Bridger asks. He raises his eyebrows, and the expression pulls on the trio of claw-marks scarred on his face. “Might be dangerous.”

“It is less than ideal,” Thrawn admits. “But we are in less-than-ideal circumstances. In order to ensure your survival, I would recommend a fire to raise the temperature of your core.” He watches the human shift uncomfortably, weighing his dislike for any of Thrawn’s ideas with what was clearly a bone-chilling cold. _So young to be named a lieutenant commander of the rebellion,_ he thinks, watching the boy measure. _So young to carry so much on his shoulders._

For the briefest moment, he recalls the child Vurawn standing before the gathered Ascendency. 

“If you have the materials, yeah,” Bridger says, shrugging his shoulders. “That would be helpful.” His eyes hold both distrust and curiosity as he watches Thrawn rise, pulling himself into a sitting position. “ _Easy,”_ the boy adds when he groans and clutches his chest. “You’ve got broken ribs, and, I dunno, maybe some internal damage? I don’t know what, er, _blue people_ have inside of their chests.” He smirks as he receives an answering glare. “If you were more forthcoming about the details, I could maybe help you?...” 

“Unlikely,” Thrawn replies shortly. “Bridger, what do you have for tinder or flint?” 

Inwardly, he cringes at the way each breath burns against his fractured ribs. _In addition to the significant bruising,_ he thinks, imagining the state of his battered lungs, _and likely a minor case of pneumonia, if I do not take exceptional care._

The human skywalker stares back at him blankly. “You think that I had time to pack expedition gear before we left?” he asks. “No, Thrawn, I _don’t_ have tinder or flint. Just like I don’t have a tent, or a mess kit, or _anything_ useful for our current predicament.” Bridger’s voice rises with each word, ending with him breathing heavily and shouting. Not for the first time, the boy’s fear reveals itself in his words. “I’ve got the clothes on my back, my brain, and a lightsaber.” 

“Acceptable,” Thrawn replies. “Would you hand me your weapon, Bridger?” 

The teen goggles at him. “Um, _no._ I am _not_ going to give you my _lightsaber,”_ he answers sharply, voice filled with incredulous disbelief. “Not even gonna humor that one. So whatever idea it is that you have, why don’t you just give me some instructions? If we’re really working together here, you’re going to have to trust me to get the job done.” 

Thrawn sighs. _At least we can manage to agree on something._

“Very well. Your khyber blade has an element of heat and vibration when it comes into striking contact, correct? While I haven’t tried it myself, I hypothesize that repeatedly striking an object with flammable components would provide you with a sufficient amount of residue that ignites.” 

“Come again?” Bridger asks. He takes out his lightsaber, tossing it hand-to-hand. “Speak _normal,_ Thrawn.” 

Thrawn wrinkles his nose. He is aware that Bridger is clever; _far_ more clever than he lets on _(at least, to his enemies)_ . In his research and careful planning with the _Ghost_ crew, he’d pinned the youth as someone who uses equal measures of tactical planning and intuition to complete his tasks--a rarity, and a skill that requires some form of imagination. And while preparing for what would be their encounter on Lothal, it had been his downfall to underestimate the boy’s creative talent _(that called in the purrgils)._ As such, he is _certain_ that Bridger asks for clarification less out of his lack of understanding than his desire to be an annoyance. 

“Strike something,” he replies shortly. “If it can burn, then it will leave burning sparks.” 

“See, that wasn’t hard. Was it?” Bridger quips. Thrawn narrows his eyes as the teenager makes his way to the mouth of the cave. Shrouded in shadow, Bridger scatters a handful of crumbling rocks when he leaps from the exit. He’s certain that the skywalker is relying on the Force to make his descent: most human bones would shatter from such a distance. “Be right back!” he calls, making a mockery of his earlier commands to _quiet down._ “Don’t try anything stupid while I’m gone.” 

Out of the human’s line of sight, Thrawn grimaces. 

_It’s not me that I’m worried about._ _If I can manage to keep you from making any more reckless choices that put us in more danger than necessary, then it will be some kind of miracle of the Force. But considering how my plans have failed to unfold thus far, I will_ _most certainly not be holding my breath._

Allowing the fogginess of sleep and injury to wash though his aching head once more, Thrawn sighs and closes his eyes. 

* * *

_After the calamitous sounds of battle, the silence upon the bridge is deafening._

_“Your orders, sir?” a familiar voice asks from beside him. Thrawn turns, heat blooming inside of his chest. He looks down at the brown, rugged softness that is Eli Vanto. Dressed in immaculate, olive-green garb, standing with hands folded at respectful attention, the dark-eyed human is every bit of professionalism and pride of the Empire. If Thrawn didn’t know any better, he would say that the man was unfazed by their near brush with death._

_But he does know better; for he knows Vanto better than anyone. Just as Eli Vanto knows him._

_“For our supporting and timely gunships, a word of gratitude,” he replies. “From our captives, a formal statement of surrender.” He watches the human’s sharp, intelligent eyes. They are framed with long and elegant lashes, far longer and more lush than any Chiss. “And for our resident crew, who have managed such daring and exemplary focus…” his gaze lingers on Vanto, hoping that every word will be absorbed, “...only my most sincere words of praise.”_

_With satisfaction, he watches the signs of unfolding pleasure on his human aid._

_Eli Vanto is...beautiful. Long before Thrawn had understood the significance of such features, he’d always known that the human was exceptional. Tan-skinned, full-lipped, with keen, curious eyes, there is nothing that Vanto misses in his watchful expression; nothing that escapes his intelligent mind. Infrared vision reveals a blush spreading across his neck and collarbone, curling beautifully around the shell of his small, human ear. It disappears behind the brush of brunette hair, winding down the neck of his uniform. He longs to reach out and feel that sensation of warmth, pooling beneath his own fingertips…_

_“I’ll relay your message, sir,” Vanto replies. His accented voice is steady and smooth, but his pulse quickens under the gaze of his superior officer. “I’m certain that it shall be well-received.”_

_“Good.”_

_With light, easy footsteps, his commander paces away. Thrawn watches him, eyes tracing the outline of the human’s slowly retreating form. Hopefully, Vanto will return to him after conveying the sentiments, and they will have time to debrief the battle alone. Hopefully, they will pour a strong glass of Corellian wine, release the day’s tension with comforting words. Maybe then he will finally suggest something more: lean closer into the other man’s presence, press his lips to the edge of his beautiful jaw, breathe in that warm, anchoring scent that has become as familiar as home._

_If only he’d known then how much time they had left. Then, perhaps, these are words and actions he would have actually done._

_“Admiral,” Faro says, approaching him from across the Chimera’s bridge. Her boots click smartly against the polished halls, echoing through the dimly-lit expanse. “I’d like to commend you on your victory in the recent battle. I’d also…” she hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with her other message. “...I’d also like to congratulate you on your latest Imperial summons.”_

_Thrawn quirks an eyebrow. Surly, not another court-martial already?_

_“It’s possible, sir, that another promotion for you is in the works. We’ve just received a transmission from the emperor himself. He’s requesting that you meet him in his throne room for a private audience!” Even with all of his skill at masking emotions, it seems as though Faro senses his hesitation. “The Emperor is pleased with the results of your battle,” she adds, “but he really insists that you place hold on any celebrations. And this meeting occurs at the nearest possible time.”_

_“Of course.” The cold, seeping feeling of worry twists in his gut. He nods stiffly. “You have my gratitude, Faro. That will be all.”_

_In fact, this would not be the case. With no other warning than the chill of dread coiling through his insides, Thrawn would be called before the Emperor, pressed once again for his competing loyalties. Faced with the impossible choice of deserting the Chiss Ascendency or the newly-built Empire, he would be forced into making the next step of his precarious game of war survival: sending Vanto away, entrusting him to the watchful eye of Admiral Ar’Alani. It would not be easy, leaving himself alone to face the willpower of the Empire. But it would mean removing Vanto from the line of fire. And it would keep him from becoming another card in this deadly game of sabbac; one that he would not dare to lose._

_For if anyone knew how deeply he felt for his aid--if anyone knew that the man from Lysatra held not only his words, but his very heart_ _in his hands--both of them would be in terrible danger._

_Turning swiftly and striding for his personal cabin, Thrawn begins preparations. There are books to be packed; words to be translated; a journal that needs one last, final entry. Constellations of thought spiral inside his head, and as makes his way down the hall, he knows that his body is on auto-pilot. Such things do not matter: he must do what he can, to protect the cervical of the Ascendency._

_He must do what he can, to protect Eli Vanto._

* * *

  
  


With a snarl, the creature rears back on its many, writhing, sharp-taloned legs. 

The beast is _enormous_. Ezra Bridger hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d called the creature a monster. Worm-like, or perhaps serpentine, it writhes and gouges deep swaths of the ground as it fumbles in pursuit of the human. Fortunately, the young skywalker is far more dexterous than the massive predator. He dodges out of the way of its burnt-orange, jagged incisors with ample amount of space between them. “Careful!” he calls, whirling his lightsaber like a fan and leaping far out of its range. “That thing’s got a set of some gross-looking chompers!” 

“ _Mandibles,”_ Thrawn corrects. 

He can tell from the context of Bridger’s expression that he’s made poor timing for this anatomy lesson. However, such details are essential to him: the more carefully he pays attention to the creature before them, the more closely he will draw to identifying it. Given that false and rather flesh-like face above its carapace--along with several hundred glittering eyes--he is fairly certain that what they’re dealing with is a _squallyhawlk._ Which would put their location on, or somewhere near, the outer-rim planet of _Aurora._

_“Man-don’t-care!”_ Bridger yells, making poor sport of his words. “Tell me something useful, Blue Man, or I’ll just let him chew up the rest of your leg!” 

Thrawn frowns. After a long walk through the rain-soaked foliage, they’d come upon a clear, freshwater pool surrounded by flowering fruits. Naturally he’d been suspicious, but young Bridger had crouched down and sunk his teeth into the nearest one’s flesh, happily declaring it breakfast. By the time that he’d joined the human, tentatively picking at his own fruit with a broken fingernail, he’d noticed the strange, eerie silence around them; and the odd, pudgy face leering out from the bushes. He hadn’t managed to be quick enough to avoid the creature’s first strike, but, fortunately, the damage seems only surface-level. 

_Perhaps it is just a youngling,_ he thinks, watching the creatures sway after a leaping and slicing Ezra Bridger. _That would explain the poor coordination._

Squinting at the hard, crested shellwork upon its back, Thrawn makes calculations. He doubts that even a piercing strike from the lightsaber would do enough damage to work through that scale-like armor, and he suspects even less that the creature could take damage on its false head. “Try the mandibles,” he instructs Bridger as calmly as he can. “No, no: the mandibles. The _chompers_. _The pinchers_!” 

He feels his impatience rising, then evaporate as the Jedi neatly slices one off. 

The creature reels back, screaming. It makes a terrible, two-keyed, unholy sound, the screech coming from somewhere behind a bleeding set of mouths. Thrawn watches as the creature twists and writhes with pain, then turns for a sudden and lurching departure back towards the heavily-wooded jungle.

 _“What are you doing?”_ he hisses, waving at the creature from where he is splayed in ungainly form upon the ground. “You’re letting it get _away!”_

Bridger chuckles. The boy surprises him with the easiness of his laughter, and the way that he casually powers-down his lightsaber. “I swear, every time that I get you to say something that sounds remotely like Basic, I become _infinitely_ more powerful.” He sheaths his weapon, turning towards the Chiss and brushing leaves and tangled vines from his shoulders. “That was a good idea, Thrawn. Did you manage to figure out what we’re dealing with here?” 

“Squallyhawlk,” he says, receiving the hand that the human offers. “Or some species variation. If I’m not mistaken, they are creatures native to the Outer Rim territories. Specifically, the planet called Aurora.” He watches Bridger’s expression change. “You’ve heard of it?” 

The human shrugs, looping his blue arm over his shoulders. “Yeah! At least, I _think_ so. Something about the dark side of the force, if I remember what Kanan had…”

Bridger trails off, blue eyes shuttering. Thrawn watches grimly, aware that the grief of his loss has barely begun to settle in. “Your late master was correct,” he replies softly. _No sense bothering with condolences; the rebel cannot, and will not, accept one from myself anyway._ “From what I recall of Aurora, it is a jungle planet home to many fierce, Force-sensitive creatures, of which the squallyhawlk is notable.” 

The boy looks over at him, his eyes brightening. “Those worms can use the Force?” he asks eagerly. “Great! Then I can probably persuade them--” 

“No, not in the sense of skywalkers,” he interrupts. “If I am not mistaken, the squallyhawlk is a carnivorous predator, drawn to the scent of Force-sensitive creatures.” He pauses, seeing the disappointment settling into the lines of Bridger’s young face. “They are not generally considered to have the capacity for negotiations.” 

“Well, neither are _purrgil_.” 

This wrinkles Thrawn. He sniffs, turning his face away from the boy who is helping him limp along the road. _Stranded, and I’m forced to dwell with someone like_ **_this_ ** _,_ he thinks grimly. And yet, for all of his immaturity, he knows that he is indebted to Bridger. Whether or not his broken ribs and bruises come from the tentacle’s forceful grip, he should not have survived the pressure of atmospheric differences; let alone, the jumps in and out of hyperspace. Not without the deliberate interventions of a skywalker. 

Whether he liked Bridger or not, the human is his reluctant savior. 

“I don’t suppose that you can commune with all manner of sentient creatures?” he asks, stumbling slightly upon the road. Even for all of their differences, the human reaches out quickly to catch him. “ _Apologies._ I’m afraid that my strength is weakening.” 

“Good number of them,” Bridger says, helping to right him again. “Yeah, you’re looking a little grey around the gills. Maybe we better stop for a rest? Are you blue ones actually... _nocturnal_?” 

He grins when Thrawn shoots him another scowling look. “Hey, we all know the rumor that you’re a vampire. With those blood-red eyes, it would hardly even be a surprise!” Bridger helps them step off of the path, depositing him onto a large, moss-coated bolder. “Besides, you don’t really _help_ the whole stereotype. Blasting organ-music at every entrance and exit, and wearing those high-necked imperial robes.” 

If wasn’t in so much pain, Thrawn would consider hissing. 

“I am not a vampire,” he replies, forcing himself to remain calm and cool. “And my people call themselves the Chiss.” He watches Bridger’s eyes widen as this information is revealed. _It is fair,_ Thrawn decides, tugging at the edge of his tunic in order to adjust his bandages. _The boy has earned some information through battle._ “And while several planets within our network do dwell in darkness, I do not find the term ‘nocturnal’ to be most suitable.” 

He realizes that the human is watching him closely. Gesturing to his torn uniform, he murmurs, “Pardon me. I think that it might be prudent to check the condition of my bandages.” 

Surprisingly, Bridger starts forward to help him. “Let me handle untying knots,” he instructs, helping him to feed his wrist through the length of fabric. “We don’t have an abundance of cloth if you tear up the wrappings. I had to make due with tearing off the extra length from your tunic for those ones,” he says, nodding at the bandages as they are revealed. 

_Yes, I noticed,_ Thrawn scowls. Bridger had torn it off hurriedly, leaving a ragged and haphazard edge on his formly immaculate uniform. _And on proper terms, I would kill you._

And yet, he finds it easier to work with the skywalker than he would have expected. The boy’s hands are rougher than might be strictly necessary, but it still helps him to unravel the length of fabric better than his injured hands working alone. _It’s been a long time since I’ve been seriously wounded,_ Thrawn reflects. _It’s been even longer since I’ve received assistance._ In the time after sending away Vanto, he’d grown accustomed to doing things on his own. 

It’s not as though he would have taken another aid. 

“Thank goodness,” Bridger says, holding the dirt-smudged fabric within his gloved hands. “I thought that this was going to be all bloody and gorey. Turns out that all of your oozing must be happening on the inside.”

“Yes. How _fortunate,”_ Thrawn sniffs. “Particularly, as the treatment of injured lungs and broken ribs calls for _no restrictions_ over the chest.”

The teenager grins in apology “Sorry. I didn’t know what was bothering you, and I thought that it would be better than just letting you bleed out back there on the ground.” He turns, then drops the bundle of fabric into the freshwater pool. “Anyway, we can soak and clean these up for later. I got a feeling that we might need them.” He settles down on the ground, using a stick to prod the wrappings in deeper. “Especially if those worm-monsters come back.” 

“Squallyhawlk,” Thrawn corrects. “And, yes, that might be wise. After all, I suspect that was only a youngling.” 

Bridger goggles at him, nearly dropping his stick in the water. “What, you weren’t kidding?!” he says, snatching it back up from the liquid. “Look, I know that I made that whole thing look easy, but I don’t have an endless support of energy. Plus, if this is _all_ that we’re gonna be able to eat--” he gestures at the fallen, emptied rind of fruit that had made their breakfast, “--we’re going to have to rely on strategy, and not brute force. I just won’t have the calories.” 

For the first time since landing on this Force-forsaken jungle planet, Thrawn finds his lips drawing into a thin smile. 

“Fortunately for you, strategy is among my strongest abilities.” He winces, feeling a bubble of air moving inside of his painful chest. “But I must say, I’m impressed by you, Bridger. I wasn’t sure of the Jedi training methods, but I can see that it requires a careful knowledge of your own physical limits.” 

The skywalker frowns, fishing the freshened bandage out of the water. 

“It’s not like I had to take a class,” he grumbles darkly. “I grew up on the streets of places like Tarkintown. You either learned how to listen to the immediate needs of your body, or, well, you _died.”_ He begins wrapping the bandage around the branch, wringing it out. “You know what the Empire’s like to refugees, Thrawn. People like _you_ made sure that people like _me_ couldn’t rise above our station. Couldn’t let us live with the idea of hope.” 

And there it is once again: the reminder that they are, as always will be, enemies. 

Patiently, Thrawn examines the boy who had been his undoing. Ezra Bridger couldn’t be more than nineteen, perhaps twenty by the end of this rotation. Young life had not been easy for him, and the evidence of his childhood malnutrition can be seen in the stretch of his gangly limbs, the shadow behind his intelligent eyes. His parents, Ephraim and Mira, had been lower-class citizens into made top-tier revolutionaries with their protest broadcast to the Outer Rim. Governor Azadi, while an effective traitor, had not been able to protect them from death in a vicious uprising--and young Ezra, little more than a child, had gone on to fend for himself on the streets. No mean feat, for Loth-rat of the Empire; and no wonder that one with such determination and skills had been picked up by a crew like the Spectres. 

At least, this was how the report had told it. 

“What’re you staring at me for?” Bridger snaps, clearly unsettled by his reminder of _who_ he is stranded with and _why_ they are here. “You going funny in the head again? Seriously, Thrawn, if you and up being more trouble than you’re worth, I’m going to dump you in the garbage compactor of the nearest space-port.” 

“Of that,” Thrawn replies softly, “I have no doubt.”

He watches the young rebel gather himself and make for the trees. He is doesn’t trust Thrawn; and there is no logical reason for him to, after all that he’s seen of the Empire. And, of course, he doesn’t _like_ Thrawn. That much needs no explanation. To attribute the deaths of his parents and mentor to anyone but his own Imperial forces would be a grave dishonor. And yet, he can sense that it is so much much more: that it has to do with systems of power and oppression, of occupation and freedom from the Empire, of generations of keeping the weak and the vulnerable down. He knows all of this; he’s head it all before.

From a source that he'd once trusted and treasured above all others. 

* * *

_Thick with moisture and heavy with fragrance, the air of the jungle is humid and stifling._

_Mitth’raw’nuruodo crouches behind a cluster of ferns. He silently watches the newly-arrived platoon moving about to set up their camp. Unimpressed, he watches as one of the ‘soldiers’ attempts to fend off an avian creature: his mouth twists in grim amusement as the being staggers around, raining wild blaster-fire upon the poorly-built tents._

**_Fools,_ ** _he thinks with a curl of his lip._ **_They will hardly survive until nightfall._ **

_It appears that the smooth, silent movements of Chiss are completely foreign to these strange, impatient creatures. Surprisingly, Mitth’raw’nuruodo finds himself disappointed: until now, he’d expected better of humans. After all, their tools of resilience and conquest have set them far apart in The Chaos. Rather than avoiding trees, humans burn forests down; rather than waiting and betting the odds, humans practice the pattern of pre-emptive strike._

_As he contemplates this, the sound of a language--familiar, yet almost forgotten--suddenly tugs at his attention._

_Curious, Mitth’raw’nuruodo follows it to the point of origin._

_As he peers through the curling leaves of his dense cluster of ferns, he finds himself gazing upon a human male. The soldier is standing amongst a circle of others, clad in his sharp, olive-green uniform. Somewhat shorter then all of the others, he speaks with an easy, clear confidence. The words that fall from his plush, parted lips stir a praise deep inside of his mind:_ **_Sy Bisti._ **

**_  
_ ** _The man’s skin is sun-tanned and smooth, brown as the sands of his home on Rentor. And although he appears younger than some of the other men surrounding him, he also appears to hold their respect and attention. Perhaps it is because of his clear intelligence: for, beneath that mop of dark, unkempt hair are a pair of stunning, intelligent eyes._

_Just as sharp and as curious as any Chiss._

_Mitth’raw’nuruodo blinks, something foreign and odd stirring inside of him. At first he thinks that it is the language, unfolding before him without comprehension. But then, when the dark-eyed soldier licks at his lips, that something threatens to burn through his core._

**_What is this?_ ** _He wonders, pulse rising, as he stares at both the human and into himself._ **_I was not aware that humans were equipped with such...pheromones?_ **

_Brooding, he leans back onto his calves. While none of the others hold the least bit of interest, he finds himself drawn to this singular, human male. Perhaps it is the way that he tilts his head while he listens, dark eyes narrowing with calculated focus; perhaps, it is the way that the sheen of sweat glimmers upon his tanned skin, clinging his soaking garment beneath his armpits. Mitth’raw’nuruodo has never seen, never heard someone like him; and_ _he finds himself wanting to draw closer.  
_

_If only he’d known of the cruel, chilling distance the Force had in store._

* * *

  
  



	2. Thrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After surviving a week in the jungle, Thrawn and Ezra discover a city. Along with a few, bad surprises.

* * *

**TWO | THRAWN**

* * *

The tropical sunshine burns hot on Thrawn’s skin, and he tastes the salt of his sweat on his lips.

His uniform, once crisp and white, is torn at the arms all the way to the shoulders. He’s covered in a fine, gritty layer of sweat and grime, ranging from the greenish entrails of squallyhawlks to the brittle scabs of insect bites. Several blue-black hairs, pulled loose and sweaty, cling to the sides of his high-cheekboned face. _What I wouldn’t barter for a refresher,_ he thinks somberly, stepping around a cluster of ferns. The absence of familiar hygiene rituals have left him feeling disheveled. _Although, my appearance is hardly the greatest concern._

For there is always the _Jedi_ to worry about. 

It’s been several days since he and young Ezra Bridger crash-landed upon the jungle planet. And, to his astonishment, neither has managed to yet kill the other. _Not that I haven’t considered it,_ he thinks to himself, looking up from the shuffle of his tired feet to look at the striding teenager before him. On more than one occasion, Thrawn had fantasized about closing his hands once and for all over the human’s throat while he’d spouted those endless bouts of insults. _And yet, he’s proven useful,_ Thrawn chides himself. _It would be ill-advised to part pathways now._ He watches the human connect with the Force to move a fallen tree from their path. With a casual movement of his hands, he tosses the scaled, golden tree-trunk. 

_Furthermore, it would be illogical._

Because, in spite of his endless chatter and terrible manners, Bridger had provided the pair with protection. He’d made fair judgement calls under pressure, displayed a formidable power in battle, and had not capitalized upon Thrawn’s current wounds. Surprising him with intelligence, Bridger had even located another pool of fresh water for them to drink by using the patterns of various, berried trees _._ To someone like Grand Admiral Thrawn, such actions were more than acceptable in a companion for travel. 

_Or_ _is it_ ** _former_** _Grand Admiral?_ he wonders to himself. _After the catastrophic failure on Lothal, I have most certainly been stripped of my rank._

The idea makes the teeth inside of his dry, chalky mouth clench with frustration. All that he’d worked for--all that he’d sacrificed, organized, worked tirelessly to orchestrate in his favor--now, all of this is gone. If he wasn’t certain that his current survival depended upon Bridger, he would punish the interfering Jedi with all the might of his anger. 

_But such are my circumstances,_ Thrawn thinks, pushing back the rising bile as it burns in his throat. _Like the skywalker, I shall bide my time. An opportunity will reveal itself._

Startling him out of his thoughts, Bridger’s voice bellows down from a tree. “Hey, Blue man!” he calls, sounding breathless and excited. “Come check this out! I think that we’re finally getting close to somewhere that could be drawn on a map!” He waves a fingerless-gloved hand, gesturing for the other to come closer. 

“Indeed?” Thrawn asks eagerly. He strides towards the tree, heart leaping inside of his chest. 

After gathering their barings _(and fighting off several squallyhawlks),_ they’d begun their quest for the nearest village. It had been a long and tedious trip spanning nearly a week, and they’d yet to encounter any signs of habitation. Whether due to the prolific and dangerous creatures or the oppressively humid climate, it would seem that few non-monstrous creatures inhabited space on this jungle planet. At this point, _any_ sign of sentient life would be encouraging. “What do you see?” he asks, replying in a voice quieter than the boy above. “Dwellings? Signs of intentional fire?” 

Bridger laughs brightly and slides down the tree. 

He jumps the last several feet, landing in a rush of wind and torn clothing in front of him. These past days in the woods have made Ezra Bridger look even more wild and feral than before. Like Thrawn, he’d torn his garments in order to make himself more comfortable in the hot atmosphere; but, unlike Thrawn, his short-cropped indigo hair has begun to grow long and shaggy, falling unevenly down past his ears. Come to think of it, the boy looks much like he had when the Imperials had first encountered him among the _Ghost_ spectres, before he’d lost his master and crew. 

_Before they’d both lost everything._

“Yeah, that and more!” Bridger grins. “Buildings, moving speeders, even something that looks like a holo-dome! It’s no Coruscant, but I can tell from the landing yard that there are probably some shuttles that could take us off-world. We should be able to get in, get supplies, and find a way home before the day is out. Looks like our luck is finally turning!” 

The boy’s hope is infectious, and Thrawn finds himself nodding along. 

“Good, _good,”_ he replies. He rubs a hand thoughtfully over his smooth, hairless chin. “It sounds as though I should be able to locate a suitable comm-device without too much trouble. We can purchase a ship, a fresh set of clothes, and find a fresh set of clothes, and something of substance beyond fruit and water.” He smiles, the taste of bone-marrow soup on his palate. “And I have been most ardently craving a sonic.” 

“Yeah, _same_ , Ezra says, waving a hand in front of his nose. “You stink like the dead. Anyone ever tell you that you smell like blueberries, Thrawn? ‘Cuz if they did, they were _lying.”_

He scowls at the boy, narrowing his crimson-rimmed eyes into glowing and threatening slits. Bridger, however, doesn’t seem to mind; it appears that their brief yet memorable time together in the jungle this week has lessened his prior intimidation factor. _All the better to end this now,_ Thrawn thinks cooly to himself. _I cannot afford to allow my enemies to see me as anything less than superior._ With a quiet huff of annoyance, he turns away from the human. 

“You’re not exactly a bed of roses, either,” he grumbles.

To his surprise, the young Jedi barks a laugh and punches him in the shoulder. The combined shock of it leaves him staggering, and the sunburnt skin of his shoulder smarting from impact. “Hey, you actually made a joke!” Bridger grins. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all!” Then, withdrawing his hand, he shakes it and glances at his sore knuckles. “Er, _ouch,_ by the way. What do you train with back on your personal Star Destroyer? _Battle droids?”_

Thrawn smiles thinly, suppressing the sudden flood of anger and fear. _Mine, no longer._

“There was a time, yes. But now, I have an inclination that such times have passed.” He glances away, looking up at the sky in order to gage the distance between the sun and the heated jungle. “What I’m looking towards now, Ezra Bridger, is the future. Come: we must increase the pace of our journey if we want to arrive before nightfall. I too am eager for our departure.” 

* * *

_Standing upon the floating, shell-crusted dock of the harbor, Thrawn can taste the brine of the ocean._

_The salty wind flows through his loosened strands of blue-black hair, over his thin, smiling lips, tousling the creamy-white folds of his Imperial uniform. The casual nature of it, in the company of most people, would be distressing for him: with every wrinkle, he is pulled farther and farther away from the dignified look of a newly-promoted captain. But he is not under most circumstances, and he is not standing beside most people._ _He is beside Eli Vanto._

_And with Vanto, there is no need to think of such things._

_“Mollusks,” his ensign snorts, shaking his shaggy head. “Who woulda thought that grisk mollusks, of all things, would be their chosen method for illegal transport?” His casual beauty is stirring in the Paklarn wind: tan cheeks flushed by the coolness of the ocean air; brown hair flowing like the deep, dark waves around them; sharp eyes sparkling with curiosity and amusement. “Anyways, I hate to see that meat go to waste. I’m sure there are people whose livelihood depends on that cargo. We oughta do somethin’ about it.”_

_“Hmmm,” Thrawn muses, not agreeing one way or the other._

_He and Vanto had arrived on-planet earlier this week to investigate a rumor of black-market dealers using underwater trade routes to smuggle precious iridium. Their week of investigation had proved surprisingly fruitful; not only had they found a telling trail of discarded mollusk and makorr meat marked by the metal, but they’d also found whisperings of that name again: Nightswan. More than the smuggling, Thrawn finds himself intrigued by the emergence of this arms dealer and potential rebel name once again. If only he had more time to study the art and resources of this community, he could put together something--_

_“Yes? No?” Vanto asks, tilting his head to the side. “What’re you thinkin’ about, Thrawn?”_

_His voice is kind, warm, and holds that charming Wild Space accent. In the years that have passed since they’d lived together as roommates at the Academy, he’s come to know the lilts, rolls and nuances of that voice unlike any other. And in this question, Thrawn can hear the unvoiced suggestion that he’s acting odd again: staring off into the distance, calculating the threads of a problem, detaching himself from the world as he loses himself in the network and the seductive mystery of it. Which, most of the time, seems to bother others._

_But never Vanto. He seems almost...encouraging. If not understanding._

_“I’m considering the possible implications that this ‘Nightswan’ has for our forces,” Thrawn replies, turning from the water to face the ensign. “It occurs to me that the re-emergence of such a particular code-name ought not be taken as coincidence. Once we return to the Thunder Wasp, I intend to do a thorough investigation for any sight and sourcing related to the name. And I suspect that I will find that this...agent is more involved with the recent rebel insurgence than we once realized.”_

_He watches Vanto blink in surprise, then, his plush lips fall into a smirk. “Aw, c’mon, Thrawn. Admit it: yer just thirsty for an arch-nemesis!”_

_He startles, caught off guard by the easy humor of his human friend. Vanto laughs, apparently finding his wide-eyed expression amusing. Vanto raises a gentle, closed fist and punches lightly at the sleeve of Thrawn’s uniform-clad arm. “I know what you’re about. You just wanna go rounds with a big-bad so that you can show off!” Vanto taunts. “And you’ll go to any lengths to make that happen. Rebel Nightswan verses Captain Thrawn: it’s got a good ring to it, right?”_

_Once again, he’s relieved that humans cannot detect heat flushes as a Chiss can._

_“That’s not it at all!” Thrawn snaps, feeling blood rushing beneath his icy-blue skin. “I am merely interested in a professional capacity! As a potential threat to the Empire--” His heart pounds painfully inside of his chest as he watches the laughter-lines crinkle around Vanto’s eyes, how he leans forward in laughter, ignoring Thrawn’s words. The man is...fearless. He laughs so openly and freely, allowing the joy to move through his body and into all of those who are standing around him. It’s just one more thing that draws Thrawn towards him, a most irresistible gravitas. “--As someone who has the potential to rally a network of subversive allies,” he continues cooly, drawing up straight and rigid to cover his lapse of composure._

_“M’only teasin’ ya, buddy,” Vanto laughs. “You gotta learn to lighten up.”_

_He takes the hand--the one that he’d punched him with earlier--and steadies himself against Thrawn’s side. The warmth of it radiates through his uniform, fingertips pressing lightly against his clothed skin. Even at the fullness of his height, he only reaches Thrawn’s chest. “Although, given how sour ya got, I’m thinkin’ that I mighta actually hit on a real weak spot there by accident.”_

_The hand upon his arm lingers._

_“Perhaps,” Thrawn allows. He knows that his lies are as transparent to Vanto as the other man’s are to him. “But it is possible to have more than one goal sought after at the same time.”_ _Eyes lingering on the incoming shuttle arriving to take them back to the Thunder Wasp, Thrawn considers how true this is for his entire being. His commitment to the Empire, as well as his loyalty to the Ascendency; his aim to rise in rank and in power, as well as his goal of self-preservation from surrounding enemies; his tactics of having a limited circle, and his desire to stay close to his aid alone._

_A desire that makes him...vulnerable._

_“Krayt-spit!” Vanto laughs. “That shuttle’s a sight for sore eyes. I’m really lookin’ forward to a good sonic-shower. All this water and not enough desert’s got me feelin’ strange.”_ _Thrawn smiles minutely at the other man, but his heart is not in it. As the shuttle touches down on the ocean, stirring the air and churning the waves, he knows that it marks the end of their quiet week together. Part of him longs to stay here, tossed among the dark waves with only the warm, easy laughter of Eli Vanto; and yet, that same part of him aches, as if knowing already that such a comfort should never occur._

_Not for them. Not in this galaxy._

* * *

_“Karabast,”_ Ezra Bridger swears softly. “I cannot _believe_ this!” 

The pair of them crouch in the late-afternoon shadows of a locally-made, rough-textured building. All around them he senses sights and sounds of an inhabited city: the acrid, burnt smell of speeder exhaust; the loud, shifting murmur of countless voices; the low, rumbling vibrations of heart-build droids. Nearby, the casual walking of persons on their way home from work pass by unnoticed. Further on, the spiraling, cylindrical structures stretch their smoking fingers into the sky.After their week in the tropical jungle, most of it would have been a welcome comfort. All of it, that is, except the _wanted posters._

“Kriff,” the boy swears again. “Looks like our ticket outta here just got more complicated.”

Thrawn tries his best not to wrinkle his nose. It won’t do to scold the boy for his lack of decorum; in fact, if he’d learned a few more choice words more than _'k_ _rayt-spit,’_ he might even offer up some swears himself. “I admit that I had some suspicions that our welcome might be less than friendly,” he mutters, keeping his voice even and low, “But I did not expect for the accusations to be so swift. Nor quite so damning.” 

The young man next to him is hovering anxiously behind an emptied barrel.

His blue eyes widened and fixed on the holo, as though he’s never been a wanted criminal before. Perhaps, the notoriety is new: for, in this larger-than-life picture, Bridger’s likeness has been marred into a snarling scowl, making him look less like a boy and more like a dangerous, battle-hardened criminal. Thrawn, of course, is not disturbed by his own equally monstrous portrayal. As expected, his more alien features have been enhanced: forehead extended into an ugly, leering brow; teeth sharpened into threatening points; fingertips formed into hooked, beckoning claws. 

“You can say that again,” Ezra chuckles weakly. “And here I thought that you were a big deal.” 

The feeling of dark humor bubbles inside of his chest as Thrawn watches a thick line of credits unfurling above their heads in a bounty. “Perhaps at one point I _was_ ,” he replies. “But it seems as though that point is no more.” 

Thrawn wishes that he could say he was surprised, but, in truth, he’s long been preparing for this. At first, their entry into the town of _Ir’Rana_ had been smooth. Upon investigation, Thrawn had discovered that he had correctly deduced their location on the Outer-Rim planet _Aurora,_ and that they’d been traveling for nearly seven days’ time. However, it seemed as though the eyes of local residents lingered on them longer than common good as they’d walked the clustered streets into the busier districts of town. Even amongst the bustling rush of the inner-city market, Thrawn had felt the pressure of many eyes watching. 

So it had truly been no shock when they’d finally stumbled on the holo posters, brilliant-red and declaring them ‘ _Enemies of the Empire.’_ _What else, after his catastrophic failure?_

When Thrawn turns and notices Bridger raising a curious eyebrow at him, he sighs wearily. “Bridger. Does it truly strike you as so unusual that the Empire would turn a humiliation like Lothal into a public crime committed by rebels?” He gestures to himself, icy-blue skin and red-rimmed, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the fading sunlight. “And what better way to promote their agenda than to place the blame on their sole alien? It is the most logical of conclusions.”

The human’s brows furrows with what he supposes is righteous indignation.

_Ah, yes,_ Thrawn thinks to himself. _Rebels, and their fiery passion for justice._ And, for the briefest moment, the Jedi’s fury at his mention of the Emperor’s human-first agenda reminds him of Eli Vanto. Of how, when his personal aid had come into the knowledge of Thrawn’s dealings in enslaved prisoners, had faced him down with the most cutting gaze that he’d ever seen. Vanto had crossed his arms, set his jaw as he’d argued with him, then avoided Thrawn for the next several days. How he’d _agonized_ over seeing him, then. How he’d--

_No._ _I shall not dwell on this._

“What do you suppose we should do next?” Bridger asks. The teenager chews on one chapped, sunburned lip, looking anxious, and Thrawn is reminded once again how very young the human is. “We’ve still gotta get us some needed supplies. And we’ve _still_ got to get us a new set of clothes. All of that on top of getting a spaceship.” 

He nods, stroking the curve of his chin. “It will take some planning, but I think that we might yet find success. Perhaps, we could apply the use of disguises.” 

“Yeah!” Bridger says, swelling with excitement. “Get some local clothes, cover our faces! And, if worst comes to worst, I can always use the _Jedi mind-trick._ Kanan always says--” and, as suddenly as the energy had gathered around him, the boy’s demeanor falls. He wilts, leaning down on the barrel, sighing heavily into his forearms. For the first time since they’d begun their journey, he looks hopeless and weary. “Or. Guess I mean: Kanan always _said…”_

Thrawn observes him with a knife of pain in his chest. _I know what it means to lose someone loved,_ he thinks to himself. _And, for the boy, this loss is very fresh._

“Your Jedi master was wise to teach you the ways of the Force,” he offers calmly. “That skill will serve us well. Let us follow your plan, Ezra Bridger: to the market, to purchase ourselves some new clothes. And, if there is any trouble, I have no doubt that you will be able to handle the situation. Kanan Jarrus was a formidable Jedi: I can only imagine his proper student would be the same.” 

Startled--perhaps by the name, or by this show of kindness--Bridger’s eyes widen and water. He turns away, scrubbing a hand across his face. " _Whatever,”_ he mutters, wiping his hands on his dirty, turn trousers. “You didn’t know Kanan. Don’t talk about him.” He rises and squares his shoulders.

As the pair of them proceed towards the market, Thrawn watches his fingers run over the place where he knows that the boy’s lightsaber is hidden. _The weapon that his master, Jarrus, once gave him,_ Thrawn thinks. _Or one forged under his watchful guidance._ Being sure to keep a few, respectful paces between them, he follows the Jedi into the market. 

* * *

_Two sizes too large, the tunic hangs loosely over his shoulders. "_ _This isn’t gonna to convince anyone,” grumbles Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto._

_The man is wearing Grand Admiral Thrawn’s uniform, and he looks like a child playing dress-up in ill-fitting adult clothing. That, and also--by the way that it hangs low over his tanned torso, exposing the curve of his smooth collarbone; by the way that the creamy-white fabric contrasts with his skin, giving his figure a handsome glow; by the way that his fingertips curl at the edge of too-long, overhanging sleeves, as if just woken and reaching out for a lost dream--all of it makes something new stir in Thrawn’s belly._

_Something unexpected, and terribly powerful._

_Want._

_“It will be a sufficient disguise,” he murmurs softly, avoiding Vanto’s searching, stern gaze. “If my estimations are correct, then you will only be dealing with minor smugglers. It is highly doubtful that Nightswan himself will be among them, when he can have other pirates do his more hazardous dealings. I am certain you will be most capable in deceiving those present.”_

_Vanto grunts with disagreeable humor, and Thrawn makes the mistake of glancing down._

_Once again, he is faced with the force that is his personal aid wearing his slightly-marred clothing. Even with the added blaster-burn, Eli Vanto is the most immaculate being that he’s ever seen. Hair falling over his brow; eyes glittering with eager anticipation; chest heaving just slightly, making more skin peek out at his dark shoulder. Frowning, Vanto shifts one gilded shoulder-pad on his torso to make a better fit, and Thrawn feels his heart leap inside of his chest. The look of his hands, trailing carefully over that familiar fabric…_ _With a shiver, Thrawn closes his eyes._

_“You doubt the success of my plan?” he replies, attempting to sound off-putting and cold._

_Unsettled as he is now, Thrawn knows that it does not work. In planning this meeting with their high-profile target, he’d prepared for every eventuality. All of them, that is, except his own self. But it isn’t as though he ought to blame himself: until this day, this very moment, he’s never felt_ _such intense feelings of passion before. Yes, he’s always known that Vanto is both alluring and beautiful; but he hadn’t known that seeing him cloaked in his imperial uniform would elicit such a powerful, heart-stopping yearning. Consumed by the fire burning beneath his skin, Thrawn cannot look at his friend without feeling a blush rise into his cheeks, cannot gaze at him without becoming entangled in thoughts of reaching beneath that uniform, tasting--_

_“Not at all, sir,” his Lieutenant Commander responds. “If it’s somethin’ that you’ve put together, there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s gonna work.”_

_Vanto’s words are warm and affirming, filled with his typical, confident reassurance. The effect of his praise doubles Thrawn’s yearning, pooling the heat inside of him molten-gold. He marvels at the intensity of it, the dangerous, delicious power of it._

_“Still--”_

_Thrawn cracks open an eyelid. He watches Vanto shift one gilded shoulder-pad to make himself taller. “--Still, I’ve only done this kinda deception on the comm, like before. M’not so sure that I should be the one to go undercover.” He laughs, and it has the sound of self-deprecation. “You gotta remember, I was just trainin’ for data organization before.”_

_If he had been a wiser man, he would have kept his distance._

_However, Thrawn has never practiced his logic well when it comes to Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto._

_Crossing the short distance between them, he comes to stand before the human wearing his clothes. The hanger bay where they are preparing for the covert mission is cold, and he feels chilled and off-balanced without his usual attire. Giving into the urgent need to be closer, he places his hands upon the other man’s shoulders. "_ _Do not doubt yourself, Lieutenant Commander Vanto.” He can smell his own scent on the tunic, mingling now with the other man’s skin. “I have every faith in your capable hands.”_

_There is a long, weighted silence, and Thrawn wonders if he has finally gone too far._

_Perhaps the intimacy of his gesture has revealed far more than he’d first intended; perhaps his words are having the opposite effect, and he is making his friend that much more intimidated in his near departure. Regardless, the air hangs heavy between them, and he feels his heart race inside of his chest. It is nearly painful, the magnitude of these new, uncertain sensations._

_“If yer sure…” Vanto murmurs._

_The man tilts his head to the side. He exposes a long, smooth column of skin; and, in a surge of intense and heated emotion, Thrawn wonders what it would be like to bring his mouth down to taste that skin. To trail his lips across every inch of that sensitive breath, to kiss his way from his beautiful throat to his kind, gentle ear. He wants...how he **wants...** and if Eli, if he possibly… _

_Somewhere nearby, a loud siren blares._

_Vanto twitches sharply._ _Thrawn jumps, releasing his grip. He hadn’t realized how close he’d been holding the other man to him: how he’d guided their postures to be only a hair’s distance apart, nearly pressing the pair of them chest-to-chest. Rigid with shock and embarrassment, he waves the Lieutenant Commander away, then turns himself to retreat once again to the cabin._

**_Foolish!_ ** _He snarls to himself._ **_You are acting like a fool. Restrain yourself, or you shall lose him._**

_Not looking back, Thrawn stalks away. He drives his nails into clenched hands. He will barricade himself in his cabin, surround himself with holos and loose-flimsy files, drown himself in information until he can forget the way that his body aches for his singular friend. No harm will come to his Lieutenant Commander; no cases of liable, slander or fraternization._ _No matter how brightly this new hunger burns._

* * *

The darkness of night has already fallen, but Thrawn is still wearing his new solar-glasses.

He’d purchased the green-tinted eyewear at one of the booths while Bridger had bartered for pairs of new clothing. While little could be done to disguise his distinctive, blue-toned, alien skin, Thrawn could still pass himself off as Pantoran when he combined the look with a broad, shady hat. Now, freshly-washed and clad in the airy, loose garments worn by the local people, Thrawn feels as though he’s become an entirely different person. _Why, I suspect that I’d hardly even recognize myself in a bustling crowd! Let alone some ill-trained informant._

_“Thrawn!”_ Bridger’s voice says in a sharp whisper. _“Lose the glasses. You look ridiculous!”_

Surrounded by the swirling colors of the night market, the skywalker taps his foot scoldingly. He too is clad in the local, light-colored garments, along with a roguish bandana tied over one eye. However, unlike the former Grand Admiral, his casual human appearance has melded him seamlessly into the crowd. If Bridger hadn’t spoken, Thrawn might’ve passed him by as just another resident shopper. 

He sighs, the illusion of stealthiness sliding away. 

“You would prefer my natural state?” he asks doubtfully. The boy looks up at him curiously, and he raises a fingertip in explanation. Checking to ensure that there is nobody watching in the surrounding, dark alleyway, he flashes a glimpse of the crimson-red light glowing faintly behind his solar glasses. Bridger startles, clearly surprised. 

“They can _do_ that?” he asks. “I always thought that those were freaky. But I didn’t know that you actually glow in the dark!” 

Thrawn purses his lips, uncertain as to whether these words are meant as an insult or a complement. _(But, judging by the boy’s continued staring, he finds himself leaning towards the former direction.)_ “Yes, Nephew,” he replies, resuming their brisk walking pace towards the landing field on the outskirts of town. “I am aware that such choices make for ill-fitting fashion. But it was my thought that this appearance would be less... _memorable_ to passerby.” 

Bridger snorts. He raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” the boy chuckles. “Still getting used to travelling the world with my Uncle, I guess.” He shoots him with a cheshire grin, the scars on his face like so many whiskers. Thrawn tilts his head to the side, considering the newfound lightness in his unexpected travelling companion. Bridger had been in much better spirits after a filling meal, change of clothes, and steaming refresher. But, _no,_ it was even more than that: it was the spring of _hope_ that had returned to his step. Showing more resilience than he would have expected, the Jedi has rebounded from the shock of being pursued by the Empire and has now been restored in that fiery, confident will that burns within him to survive. 

_And perhaps, this is why I never succeeded in dousing the rebel fire. They hold with them a certain…eternal resilience._

The night is cool, and they walk in silence. Unlike their time in the wilderness jungle, a thin veil of smog hovers over the stars. As they close the distance between the city and landing field, the market’s pleasant aroma and clamor begins to fade. Soon it is only the sounds of chirruping creatures and the distant hum of an occasional speeder. Their footfalls are softened as granular pavement turns into grass, and the sky opens up to a glorious starfield of constellations above. 

“We’re far from home,” Bridger murmurs, gazing at the moon above. “But, maybe--if the Force is with us--not for too long.” 

At this, Thrawn smiles thinly. Earlier that night, amidst the clamor of the market, the skywalker had made good use of that _Jedi Mind Trick_ he’d mentioned. The boy had gathered just enough supplies for them to last the week, and just enough for them to avoid suspicion. And it had been interesting for him to watch Bridger use his professional skills, applying the knowledge he’d learned on Lothal before striking a bargain and bending their wills. For the most part, he’d been glad for the Jedi’s willingness to deceive the residents to steal their wares; and yet, strangely enough, it had also stirred up a longing for Vanto. Who’d never _once_ accepted a bargain if he knew that the other party involved might be harmed. 

_Focus,_ he reminds himself calmly. _Now is not the time to remember._

As they approach the landing field, Thrawn anticipates Bridger will once again draw from his skill so that they might quietly ‘borrow’ a ship. For, as much as neither one wants to cause any trouble, the fact still remains that they do not have enough credits to make a decent purchase. After all, they’d hardly been able to pay for a decent _meal_ without the influence of Bridger’s Force suggestion. 

“So what’s the plan?” Bridger asks. He peers up at Thrawn, adjusting the bandana so that he can gaze at him with both of his wide, blue eyes. “Are we going for stealth? _Violence?”_

He frowns at the boy. “Did your Phoenix Squadron simply give you a one-word instruction before you leapt headfirst into a dangerous battle?” Disbelieving, he watches Bridger shrug amiably. “Very well then. As we’re working with less than ideal circumstances, and as I do not have a strategy offering us more favor, I would suggest that you once again use your Force powers.” 

Bridger pauses in his walk, tugging him to a standstill. 

“Wait a minute, Uncle: let me hear that again. The _grand admiral_ of star destroyer _Chimera_ is going to just ‘let me go crazy with it’ and lead the charge without any plan? Just, you know, go ham?” He grins up at him, the magnitude of his teasing mirth only matching the intensity of Thrawn’s irate glower. "Honestly, I need to hear that again. Wait, hold on a minute; need to grab my comm and record it." 

“What good is it,” Thrawn replies in a snarl, “for us to use _code names_ if you are only going to spew such crucial information as _that?”_

He matches forward, leaving the giggling skywalker behind. _Horrible!_ he fumes into the night. _Disrespectful, ungrateful child!_ The elegant, carefully-crafted words which he’d long employed to manipulate starships and their diplomatic owners are now wasted on someone like Ezra Bridger. Somehow, perhaps by using his own version of a Jedi Mind Trick, the boy appears able to sift through his careful arrangement of words to find the skillful deception beneath. Not since Vanto has he been read with such ease; and failed so miserably in his bluff. _I_ _f I could wield the Force,_ Thrawn thinks miserably to himself, _I would most certainly use it to put a vast distance between us._

Surrounded by the foliage of the jungle, beneath the irregular pattern of stars, a former Imperial and a young skywalker make their way toward the waiting hangar.

* * *


	3. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan doesn’t work out. Ezra comes up with a(nother) crazy idea, and Thrawn's just might be worse.

* * *

**THREE | EZRA**

* * *

Welp.

Seems like ‘ _just going crazy with it’_ isn’t gonna work out the way that he’d hoped. 

Ezra Bridger huffs loudly as he heaves the limp body of former Grand Admiral Thrawn over his shoulder. The other man’s long-limbed boots drag behind them in the dirt, adding a new layer of dust to the dead-weight of their wounded pride. Even though he’d become quite fit from the regular brawls of the rebellion, Ezra feels every bit of the strain from carrying his former nemesis. Their failure back at the hanger makes him grit his teeth; and it has less to do with the pain of his blaster-burns, and more to do with his frustration. 

“If I’d have been with my _friends,”_ Ezra grumbles, “We could’ve _easily_ won that stupid battle.” 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been among the usual Spectres. When Ezra had jumped the first, sleepy guard inside of the hanger, he’d expected Thrawn to do something like his sister Sabine _(set off pre-emptive explosives_ ) or his brother Zeb _(strike down the remaining guards)._ However, the asshole had simply stood back and _watched--_ leaving Ezra and his blind-side open. In the flurry of sirens and chaos that followed, they’d been swarmed by no less than a dozen armed guards--and all of them armed with electro-staffs built to take down squallyhawlks. Honestly? He’s just glad to still be alive. 

“You’re worthless,” he informs the unconscious Chiss. “A blue, fancy pile of rank-bars and talking.” 

Satisfied that they’d made enough distance into the forest to secure their safety, he drops the other man unceremoniously to the ground. Darkness hovers all around them, but his eyes have adjusted by now to take in the winding trees and human-sized leaves suspended within their branches. Although he cannot see each of the individual creatures, he can feel the warm, thrumming presence of several living beings watching them from the shaded quiet. 

Turning his gaze upon his former nemesis, Ezra sighs heavily. Lying there face-down and weaponless, he looks practically _fragile_ . “Oh, _alright_ ,” he mutters guiltily, crouching down to roll the man onto his side. “Once and awhile you have good ideas. But when it comes to fire-fights? You’re totally bantha shit, buddy.” 

He smiles as, from the depths of his slumber, Thrawn releases an irritable grunt. As his tall, smooth forehead creases with growing annoyance, the man finally seems to be coming back to himself ( _after yet another head injury...yikes)._ He groans through cracked lips, and his red-rimmed eyelashes flutter against icy-blue skin. 

_“Language,_ Nephew.” 

One eye cracks open, and Thrawn focuses on him with an uncanny, pink iris. Strangely enough, it floods Ezra with relief to see the sight of his former enemy’s gaze shining brightly and keenly back at him once again. “Although,” Thrawn continues, “had you paused long enough to allow for the fullness of my plans before attacking, it is more likely that you would be expressing your gratitude to me right now. As we sailed away on our successfully-acquired ship. Back to where we both belong.” 

Ezra winces. _I take it all back. This guy’s an asshole._

“Oh yeah, sure. Says the guy who told me to just _‘go ham’_ and whatever.” He sees Thrawn attempting to sit up, so he leans down and loops an arm under his shaking shoulder. “Easy there. I think you’d better sit the next one out anyway. If you hit your head again in such a short time, I’m kinda worried about what it’ll do to your brains.” 

Thrawn gives him a stern look, maybe laced with some weariness. 

Ezra’s not totally sure; besides anger, he finds the Chiss quite hard to read. More often than not, he has to reach out and use the Force in order to glimpse an understanding of what’s going on inside of his head. Usually, there’s a _lot_ more emotions going on than what he’s physically expressing: it’s like a riot of conflicting, unsorted colors. Not for the first time, Ezra wonders about how the Chiss are taught to express thoughts and feelings in their home culture. 

The blue-skinned man raises a hand and passes it through his loose hair. He cringes, apparently finding a bruised area on the dome of his sensitive skull.

“I cannot ascertain whether you mock me, or show concern for my welfare,” Thrawn eventually replies. _And, yes: in his voice, there is a definite sound of tiredness._ “Regardless, I thank you, Ezra Bridger, for once again sparing my life under such difficult circumstances. Particularly, when it would have been more convenient to leave me where I had fallen. Particularly, when it is illogical for you to do so.” 

He stares up at him, red eyes narrowing. Without his solar glasses, they glow bright in the dark. 

“You’re welcome?” Ezra replies, rising from his crouched posture. He groans, placing hands on his lower back and arching his spine in a much-needed stretch. “I’d do the same for anyone, really. You don’t leave strangers behind to be captured...let alone, your own Uncle _.”_ He flashes a smile at the other man that he doesn’t truly feel. _He’s probably right, though. Should I have just left him behind? What would Kanan have done, in the same situation?_

At the thought of his fallen mentor, Ezra’s lingering spike of adrenaline flags. 

He sighs, allowing his back to fold once again. The blaster burns ache on his arms and side; the tiredness of dragging Thrawn out of the hanger and into the dark has left him feeling more tired than he’d thought. Before they can come up with a plan, he’s going to need to restore some of his energy. That, or retreat for a safer battle. 

“Are you well, skywalker?” Thrawn’s voice asks quietly. 

Ezra slides down the dew-slippery trunk of a tree, plopping onto the jungle floor. Above him, he can see the ruby and gold flicker of lanturn-flies; underneath him, he feels the softness of pillowy moss, the squish of grass and rain-soaked earth over pebbles. _Far from Lothal. Far from the Spectres. Far from home._

“I dunno,” he replies to Thrawn honestly. “I know that, against the odds, we’ve made it so far. But I can’t help feeling like we’re...starting into a much bigger battle.” 

He hadn’t thought of it that way before they’d left Lothal. In fact, he’d hardly thought at _all_ before summoning the space-whales. His plan with the purrgil had been last-minute, and a last-ditch effort to save what he knew could be crushed by the Empire. He hadn’t been making long-term plans for a journey across multiple solar systems; he’d just been trying to keep his friends from dying beneath the lasers of cannon-fire. 

“It is possible,” Thrawn admits. His voice is quiet, and sounds more pensive than before. 

“I too have been avoiding the long-term implications of our journey, and find myself feeling uncertain at best. If it were as simple as attaining a ship to ensure our safe return, I would begin working on more serious plans to ambush the hangar. However. I am not yet convinced that this shall be our wisest course of action. You and I are now criminals of the Empire. And, as such...” the gaze, ever-steady, looks from the forest floor and back up at Ezra. “... _as such,_ there is no certain way to secure our safe return. For no matter what planet on which we land, nor what upon which spaceport we roam, there will _always_ be enemies now, waiting for us.” 

Ezra suppresses a shiver. _Yeah. Thanks for that._

“Nothing new here,” he replies breezily. “As a rebel, I’ve been hiding out from the Empire with my family for _ages._ Sounds like you’re gonna have to take a sheet of flimsy out of my book, Mr. Star Destroyer, and learn to lay low like the rest of us criminals.” He plugs a fallen vine from the ground, missing his ruined, fingerless gloves as he twirls it within his fingers. “It’s not fun, but there are all kinds of tricks to it. You’ll pick it up in no time.” 

From where he is seated, Thrawn inclines his head. He casts his eyes downward, laces his long fingers together. Once again, Ezra wonders what he is thinking. 

As he watches the former Grand Admiral stare quietly into space, nestled among the dripping ferns and quiet, forest floor, a thought suddenly occurs to him once again. “By the way, I noticed that you keep calling me by the wrong name. Why do you keep saying ‘ _skywalker_ ’? Isn’t that the name of some old Clone Wars general?” 

To his mild surprise, a flicker of tension ripples through the Force at his words. Thrawn looks up at him, a slight frown at his mouth. 

“Yes...you are correct. There was once a man named Anakin Skywalker, and he _was_ someone who I believed could be trusted. However, that warrior is long gone.” He brings his steepled fingers towards his lips, resting upon them as he gazes at Ezra. “You are incorrect, however, in your understanding of my use of that word. Where I come from, ‘ _skywalker’_ is what we call our... Force-touched Navigators. It is a loose translation from _Cheunh_ into Basic.” 

Ezra blinks. “Oh!” he tosses the thick vine away, instead drawing his knees to his chest. “Just sort of a coincidence, then, huh?” 

“Apparently,” Thrawn replies.But it seems as though this is enough dialogue for him right now, because he raises his fingers to rest at his temples. A wave of weariness runs over his bowed-over frame, and without the brilliant-white of his Imperial garb, he looks to Ezra like a bent, homeless man. In many ways, he was. 

With a sigh, Ezra leans his head back against the sturdiness of the tree.

_I don’t want to have compassion for him,_ he thinks stubbornly, watching the other man. _I don’t want to treat him like we are equals. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s taken too much._

However, the young Jedi cannot help but feel moved with sadness for the plight of his fellow... _traveller_ . Like so many times in his life before, Ezra has become uprooted: a refugee, wandering dangerous and foreign lands. And Thrawn, it seems, is not totally unfamiliar with such challenges: the man was already traveling far away from his home, appearing alone in an alien land. However, in this particular, on-the-lam situation, he seems less... _equipped_ to survive than Ezra. Whether because he is older or used to privilege, Thrawn seems to be floundering out here in the wild. At least, that’s how it seems to Ezra. 

_It really would have been easier to just leave him there,_ he thinks to himself. _But that’s not what my family taught me. And that’s not the galaxy that I’ve been fighting for._

Clothed in the garments of this new planet, softened by the surrounding protection of the forest, Ezra allows himself to begin to nod off to sleep. If one of the prowling creatures approaches, he knows that the Force will jolt him awake. He also knows that if it comes down to the worst, his odd companion is bound to make some kind of struggling noise. Even if he cannot defend himself in his current state, Thrawn can at least do that much to help out their cause. 

Far from home, Ezra Bridger closes his eyes. 

* * *

_Across the swaying of the golden-grass fields, high above the curving, striped rocks of Lothal, a ship approaches a waiting soldier._

_Ahsoka Tano is clothed in garments of white. When she descends from the ship, carries a staff with her, and it rests in her hand as magnificent as any saber. Over her striped, deep-blue Montrails she now wears a hood that shadows her eyes. And yet, an expression of determination can still be seen clearly upon her face._ _She is ready for their new mission._

_“It’s good to see you again,” Sabine Wren greets her._

_The Mandalorian woman strides forward, the dust of Lothal swirling beneath her feet and clinging to her dented, brilliantly-painted armor. She hikes her travelling bag higher over her shoulder, reaching out for the ocher-skinned hand. “I have to admit that I didn’t know if you’d come when I first called you. It’s not as though the galaxy is peaceful and quiet. You’re probably much needed elsewhere.”_

_The other woman smiles warmly. She reaches out, clasping Sabine’s offered hand._

_“Nothing is more important than family,” she assures Sabine with confidence. “And it’s good to see you, too. Although, I wish I could have come to your side sooner: your family has lost too much, and in too short of a time.” Her voice grows heavy with sorrow, acknowledging the recent death of Jedi Knight Kanan Jarrus as well as the mystery of Ezra Bridger. “I’m so sorry.”_

_“Thank you,” Sabine murmurs. She returns her grip to the shoulder-bag, biting down and refusing to cry. “Yes. It’s been awful.”_

_The Togruta woman nods her head. She reaches out again, but this time loops a strong, cloaked arm around Sabine’s shoulder. The younger woman rests her head against the Force-user, and they walk together towards the waiting ship. “You are prepared for our journey?” Ahsoka asks, walking stride for stride with the Mandalorian. “There is no telling how far we will go, or where we will be going. I cannot guarantee that we will even come back.”_

_Sabine sniffs, blinking away dust and tears. “Yes, I am. Let’s get going.”_

_Quietly, the pair of them walk up the waiting plank of the worn, red-painted ship. It’s an old, elegantly-shaped thing, newer than the Ghost but with far less firepower. Given what she can take in from the sublight engine and field generators, Sabine can place this vessel as a consular-class cruiser from Corellia. That means that it’s comfy, and will give them more than enough engine power to jump through the vastness and turbulence of hyperspace._

_“Wow,” she praises, running a hand over the opened doorway. “How in the stars did you get them to borrow you something this nice?”_

_Ahsoka grins, some of the sadness leaving her face. “Oh, I know more than a few ancient relics of the Old Republic,” she replies. “This one was once used for diplomatic missions on Naboo, and salvaged by some of our supportive senators. We’ve been able to keep hidden for some time. Now, the Radiant only goes out on the longest Rebellion missions.”_

_Sabine grins back. “Long journey it is, then.” She steps inside. “Thank you, again.”_

_“Always.”_

_The Force-user pauses, leveling Sabine with a serious gaze. It is as if she knows that there are words building inside of the Mandelorian woman that are bursting to find their way out, questions that she desperately needs to ask. Sabine exhales deeply, crossing her arms over her chest. Wind ruffles the short, purple threads of her hair, and she longs to pull the helmet tucked under her arm to sit like a shield over her face._

_“Ahsoka. I’m so grateful that you came: more grateful than words can say. When Ezra left, he said that he was ‘counting on me’ for something. And…” she hesitates, “...and I have_ **_no idea_ ** _what that’s supposed to mean!” She expels the words, tears rushing into her eyes, unbidden. “What was he trying to tell me? I cannot carry that by myself! I don’t even know what that was all about!” She gazes at the Togrutan woman hopefully. “But you can help me. If anyone can help me understand, it’s you: another Jedi.”_

_With that sadness again, Ahsoka smiles. “I am no Jedi,” she replies, gentle but firm._

_Sabine ducks her head, but the other woman continues. “But hear this, my friend: you are not alone. You don’t have to do all of this by yourself. We’re going to carry this together, you and I. Starting today, we’re going to set out and find Ezra Bridger. And while I’m not sure that we will find him, I can certainly promise you this...”_

_When she pauses, Sabine looks into her eyes. She sees nothing but fearsome, unstoppable determination._

_“...That we will not stop searching until we have answers. That we will do everything within our power to find him. And that our hearts and minds will not rest until we know Ezra Bridger is home where he truly belongs.” The former Jedi taps her staff upon the ground, directing the airlock of the Radiant VII to cycle closed. As she does this, the long, golden grasses of Lothal and the rosy, red evening sunset are at once obscured._

_And the doorway across the stars is flung open._

* * *

From the mouth of the cave, they can hear the faint crunching and slurping of bones.

_“Alright,”_ Ezra whispers, peering around the side of the craggy boulder. “All you have to do is make them _angry_. If we’re lucky, the squallyhawlks will stop eating their lunch and come storming out of that nest, making their way through the jungle and towards the hangar. That ought to create a distraction long enough for us to get around those armed guards, and for us to make our way to a hyperspace vessel. If not, we’ll just move to Plan Two.” 

He shoots a grin at the alien man, who is now scowling darkly. 

“In which I am _eaten_.” 

“In which you get eaten,” Ezra agrees. “Yeah, I know that it doesn’t sound great on this end. But if you can get inside of its mouth without being sliced open? Then we have a pretty good shot of tearing off one of those mandibles! That should make for a _very_ good weapon. Which, if you haven’t noticed, you don’t have right now.”

He gestures at his own lightsaber, then Thrawn’s noticeably bare side. The sour look on the other man’s face only increases. 

“Oh, c’mon, Uncle! Did you swallow a _gruffle_ this morning? Everything’s gonna be fine!”

Ezra grins as he watches the former Grand Admiral wrestle with his dislike for the young rebel and his desire to finish this quickly. Thrawn’s proposal for their plan forward had been different: to lure the guards out into the forest, drop down on them from the thick-vined trees from above. But Ezra had argued that such a plan would require several days’ longer upon Aurora--and he just doesn’t have that time. He needs to return home to his family, as soon as possible. 

And, just like purrgil, squallyhawlk are _efficient_. 

“ _Fine,”_ Thrawn snaps, squeezing his eyes shut. “I shall do this nonsensical thing. But you shall be right behind me. I do not want to lose an arm or a leg.” 

He rises, brushing off the loose-flowing fabric that they’d purchased three days ago from the market. Like Ezra’s own clothing, the threads have now become smudged with dirt and stained with various forest pollens, giving them an appearance of more casual travellers (or at least, more than iron-pressed Imperial whites). However, in spite of the clothing change, nothing could ever account for the man’s brooding, ominous presence: stone-still, always staring, the former Grand Admiral’s attitude of stern observation is what really sets him apart. 

“That would be an _egregious oversight,_ ” Ezra replies, using a voice that parrots Thrawn’s own. _“Waste of resources. Illogical.”_

To his surprise, the Chiss rolls his eyes. It’s a fairly sarcastic gesture. 

Leaving Ezra upon silent feet, Thrawn moves his way toward the squallyhawlk nest. He marvels at the athleticism of the alien man, wondering how dangerous his approach might be when at full potential. _For an office nerd,_ he thinks, watching him slip inside of the mouth of the cave and disappear seamlessly into the shadows, _he seems awfully sure-footed._ Not for the first time, Ezra wonders if the rumors that he’d heard from Zeb are true, that Thrawn had trained in the martial arts. It’s hard to tell, given his current, thrice-injured state. 

Or given the man’s history of using soldiers to do his dirty work, like torturing rebels. 

_Focus,_ Ezra commands as a wave of anger ripples through him like nausea. _Not now. You’ll both have to deal with that later. For now, you just focus on what you can do: the mission at hand._ He breathes, exhaling the memories of his family being captured and harmed by the Empire. _That’s right, breathe. Just let go of your anger._

Then a terrible, ear-aching shriek alerts him that a different creature’s rage has won out. 

Grinning, Ezra hones in on the irate cries of the squallyhawlk thundering under the nest. _Yes! The plan’s working!_ With the assistance of the Force, he can feel Thrawn’s rapid movement towards the exit of the cave. _It’s working!_ However...he can also sense that his companion is being pursued by no less than sevel of the fully-grown, rampaging worm monsters. _Whoops!_ He’d planned for two at the most. _How’d they all fit inside? Oh well..._

_...Run, blue man! RUN!_

Thrawn is indeed running when he emerges from the squallyhawlk nest. He’s looking slightly less elegant than when he’d snuck in before, and he’s hobbling, clutching at a stitch in his side. 

Ezra winces; with all of the Chiss’ stoicism, he’d forgotten how badly that the other man had injured his ribs. It’s possible that asking him to run bait this morning hadn’t been his most generous offer. And Thrawn must be thinking something like this too, because his eyes are _burning_.

_“_ BRIDGER!” he yells. “The first plan! _HURRY!”_ Vine-laden trees come crashing down as the mottled-green monsters come thundering after him. 

The largest squallyhawlk is in the lead, with remnants of some furred forest creature dangling horribly from its slavering jaws. Judging by the state of its injured eye, Thrawn must have thrown a sharpened rock to strike the fleshy, false face of the creature while it had been distracted and eating. He’d succeeded in making it mad, alright: each of its many eyes are rolling with fury, and it hisses with anger, clicking its mandibles. 

_“Alright!_ ” Ezra cheers. “I _told ya t_ hat you could do it!” 

As planned, he reaches out with the Force. 

Bracing himself against the rock, Ezra gathers the energy around Thrawn. The air seems to shimmer and boil as he lifts the other man into the air, sweeping him up and over the boulder. It takes some effort--he’s getting _tired_ of carrying the other man--but he doesn’t seem as winded as the Chiss who’d been running for his life just now. “You alright?” he asks, depositing Thrawn on the ground beside him.

“Yes,” Thrawn agrees, chest is heaving. “But there’s no time to waste! Bridger: _follow.”_

Dropping into a crouch, Thrawn moves quickly and stealthily into the forest. Earlier, under the cover of darkness, the pair of them had prepared a cleared path outside of the rampaging zone of the monsters. Now they race through the forest, obscured by thick cover of dark leaves and wet branches, able to keep up with the charging monsters without being discovered. For the first time since before Lothal, things seem to be working out like Ezra had hoped. The creatures plow forward towards the waiting hanger, screeching and tearing down trees in their wake.

_“Quickly!”_ Thrawn whispers, hovering next to the edge of the forest. “We must continue.” 

Ezra nods, breaking through the treeline alongside him. 

The timing of it has to be _perfect_. Sprinting after Thrawn, Ezra keeps his eyes on the rampaging squallyhawlks, making certain that none of them notice their flight. So far, so good: one of them appears to have stayed behind at the nest, while the others (six, of different sizes and colors) tear into the open field. Their carapace cling with broken underbrush, and their mandibles snap scarlet and wet in the sunlight. 

_“Stay close,”_ Thrawn urges. 

Ezra looks back, finding them far closer to the side door than he’d expected. He comes skidding to a halt behind Thrawn, hearing the sounds of commotion from the front of the hangar as shield doors open and blasters rain fire. “Bridger?” Thrawn’s uncertain voice makes him peer around the other man’s shoulder, where he finds him struggling with a door lock.“If you don’t mind--” 

With the loud, grating sound of durasteel welding, Ezra wrenches the door from its hinges. 

“Excellent!” Thrawn praises. 

He sounds both surprised and impressed, and Ezra finds himself feeling a flash of startling pride in himself at the words. _Strange,_ he thinks, running after his former nemesis. _Wouldn’t have ever expected that I’d ever_ _appreciate words from Grand Admiral Thrawn._ Yet, as he watches Chiss lead their way around the corner, he realizes that perhaps that man is gone, lost and died among Lothal’s rebellion. _Only time will tell._

Thrawn pulls up sharply before another locked door. 

He leans close, examining the sensor-pass. “This one may prove more difficult,” he says, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Bridger. I don’t suppose that you can use the Force to sense the pattern of the previous user’s fingertips?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, clearing the way for him to step forward. “If you can detect the lingering traces of a familiar pattern, perhaps you could guess the necessary code.” 

Ezra blinks. “Never tried that,” he says. Stepping forward, he focuses his attention. 

The heat signature is long-gone, and the remaining traces of skin are faint and blurry. Ezra can tell that this scanner uses a map of the guard’s open palms, and that it would be useless for them to try and slice their way in there. He’s about to tell Thrawn as much when the sound of blaster-fire echoes its way down the hallway, closely followed by a shrill yell: “ _Alert!”_

“Out of time,” Thrawn murmurs. “Perhaps on the next occasion, Bridger.” 

He doesn’t wait to make sure that Ezra is following. Thrawn turns and cuts sharply around the near corner, making his way towards the back of the hanger. Hissing with frustration, Ezra steps back and turns to follow after him. As he turns the corner himself, he feels the rush of a laster-bolt pulse by his ear. It ruffles his now-shaggy hair. 

“Uncle, they’re onto us! _Hurry!”_

The noises of sirens and blasters increase in volume as Ezra and Thrawn pelt down the long hallway. Glazing in the open doors as he runs past, the Force-user can see lanes of lighted airstrips leading out towards parked or hovering ships. Thrawn must have his mind set on something _else,_ because he is leaving all of the larger and sturdier vessels behind. He’s about to call out to the Chiss to ask him some questions when, suddenly, he turns and makes a sharp exit down a left hall. 

It leads towards a battered, old freighter. 

“ _This?”_ Ezra asks, running after Thrawn and not bothering to hide his disbelief. “Can this hunk of junk even _fly_ ?” It’s not like the _Ghost_ is anything special--but compared to this rickety, ancient thing, it makes Hera’s ship look practically model. “Thrawn. Can’t you just pick something else?” 

The Chiss shakes his head. He taps on the door panel, unsealing their ship. “Inconspicuous,” he says, stepping inside. “Unremarkable. Under the radar.” 

“ _Old,”_ Ezra grumbles. He hurries after Thrawn, sealing the door behind him. “When you said that we’d borrow a starship, I was hoping that we’d at least get a cruiser.” The other man moves quickly towards the cockpit, and he follows him, still pestering. “Do you really think that something like this is going to be able to get us all the way back to Lothal?” 

With startling speed, the Chiss begins flipping switches to wake the engine. “No,” he replies, smooth and confident. “But our destination is _not_ Lothal.” 

_“What?!”_

Sooner than he’d expected, rolling with shock at the words, Ezra finds himself being thrown back in the ship’s rising jolt. It’s most definitely _not_ the ship that’s become home: this one practically screams as it’s engines roar to life, and the thrusters vibrate all the way through the core. Ezra stumbles and climbs his way into a chair, strapping himself with a safety belt. The ship sways dangerously around him. and he grasps hold of the armrests.

“What’dya mean, we’re not going back to Lothal?!” he bellows at Thrawn. “What are you talking about? Where are we _going?!”_

Thrawn turns and shoots a gaze at him. In spite of the passion and focus that he spies there, it’s also filled with an expression that Ezra can read plainly--and that he’s only seen once before. _Fear._ “I’m taking us back to Csilla,” he says, “the home of my people.” 

And before he can ask him _where_ such a planet is--before he can ask Thrawn the _why,_ or the _how,_ or the _whether or not he’d included him_ on this decision _-_ -the Chiss is motioning for him to rise from his chair. “Ezra Bridger: is it within your skillset to manage this ship’s firepower? If I am not mistaken, it is what our... _exit_ now requires.” As if on cue, the freighter around them rumbles and groans. 

And beneath them, the sound of a canon explodes. 

* * *

  
  



	4. Thrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn and Ezra Bridger learn a little bit more about each other. A course is set for Csilla; however, they may not make it there, given this ship...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words used for Sy Bisti have been crafted in the method used by Timothy Zahn: inspired by the actual Zulu language, with the vowels shifted over by one slot. For a working dictionary of Zulu to English, check out this website: https://isizulu.net/

* * *

**FOUR | THRAWN**

* * *

**_“A friend need not be kept within sight or within reach. A friend must be allowed the freedom to find and follow his own path. If one is fortunate, those paths will, for a time, join. But if paths separate, it is comforting to know that a friend still graces the universe with his skills, and his viewpoint, and his presence.”_ **

_A bead of dark, inky liquid trembles on the nib of the pen held between his thumb and forefingers._

_It shivers there, dark as the galaxy’s tears, threatening to fall upon the journal’s crisp, perfect flimsy. If it does, it will marr the carefully-pressed ideas and words that he’s long been preparing upon the page. It might also reveal his hesitation--the trembling within his hands--as he attempts to express what their time together has meant to him, without revealing or presuming too much._

_“This is a mistake,” Thrawn murmurs, eyes scanning over the written page. “I’ve already said too much...revealed too much.”_

_And yet he cannot help but to pour out his heart in the journal’s pages, knowing that this opportunity might be his last chance of private communication with his friend Vanto. Once he’s sent the man away to Ar’alani, he might not ever hear from him again; once he is in the possession of the Ascendency, everything about their dynamic shall change. It is likely that, after his people recognize the human for what he is worth, that all of his influence will be severed. It’s a risk, but it’s one that he must take. He will not allow the Emperor, nor the threat of his pawn Vader, to capitalize upon his affections._

_“Affections…”_

_At the quiet admission, a rush of heat passes over his face. It begins in his chest, radiates out from his core and floods from his chest out to his slim fingertips. Thrawn can feel the sensation of heated blood rushing past the skin of his lips, hovering under the curve of his eyes, pulsing at the place where his fingertips rest on the pen. Perhaps, it is best that his aide is no longer with him. This growing compulsion to reach out and touch him...this disquieting warmth, which seizes him, body and mind...this restless exhaustion, from sleepless nights and from dreams, unexpected…_

_He brings his pen to the page._

**_“For if one is remembered by a friend, then one is never truly gone.”_ **

_He gazes at the final sentence, feeling the weighted sensation of disappointment settling cold and yearning in his stomach. There is so much more that he ought to say; there are so many more stories, more pieces of advice and wisdom, more expressions of...affection...that he desires to share. However, there is far little time left for crafting such things; and if he were to place his words on the page now, without the proper time to perfect and calculate, they would simply emerge as “I love you.” And such things are not meant to be expressed through the distant silence of flimsy, but to be uttered upon the tongue, sweet and sincere, while pressed face to face._

_Which he knows that neither of them can endure._

_“May the speed of the stars be with you, Eli Vanto,” Thrawn murmurs. With a weariness that he feels down to his bones, Thrawn presses the flimsy pages of the journal closed. As he rises from his chair, preparing to depart from his cabin and to--once again, and finally--place his words into the hands of his most-trusted friend, Thrawn feels as though the other man has already been gone from his presence for thousands of years._

* * *

Blessedly, Bridger waits until they’ve exited the atmosphere of Aurora before he starts bombarding Thrawn with questions. 

“Whatever happened to _you’re in charge now, Bridger?”_ the young skywalker asks, throwing his hands into the air and wiggling his fingers. “So you just decided without asking me about changing course? You just assumed that I’d be okay with going Silly instead of back to Lothal, where this whole thing started?” His face is flushed. Perhaps, it is from the victory of successfully manning the YV-865’s ancient cannons; perhaps, it is with anger at Thrawn once again. 

The way that he’s staring vibro-daggers at him suggests the latter. 

“I apologize for failing to ask your opinion,” he replies steadily. “But I had anticipated that we would require a destination once launching our ship. It was also my understanding that you, like myself, desired to evade the Empire; and that you were open to acquiring additional allies and resources, regardless of their origin.” He watches the boy, seeing him deflate slightly at the logic of his words. “I assure you, I meant to inflict no offense.” 

Bridger winces. He leans back in his battered chair, crossing his arms and relaxing. 

“Well, you did.” He shrugs his shoulders. “But...thanks for explaining that. Makes sense, when you put it that way. Just, consider for the future that it’s nice to ask other people about _what they are okay with_ and _what they are not okay with_ before making a command decision for everybody. It’s about giving some freedom of choice.” 

Thrawn blinks. 

Once again he is reminded of Vanto, and how the other man had reminded him time and again that he ought to ask _first_ and to take action _later_ . For, as his aid had informed him: regardless of one’s position of power, and regardless of one’s tendency to estimate situations and plans correctly, it was still polite to gather consent from any others involved in one’s plans. Before Vanto ( _and, admittedly, after),_ he’d had the tendency to trust his instinct and intellect above all others… and sometimes, on occasion, at the _expense_ of others. Such as his early requests to keep Vanto with him on the _Blood Crow,_ rather than to allow him his desired vocational track. 

It’s been a long time since he’d pondered that. 

“As you say,” he replies, inclining his head. “And if you find this time suitable, perhaps now would be the right occasion for us to discuss our travels.” When the human raises his blue-black eyebrows, Thrawn winces internally. _Us. Our._ He is not certain when he’d made the shift from ‘ _my escape’_ to _‘our travels’_ within his mind, but it appears that the transition has fully occurred. Now, sharing the same, battered starship and pursued by the same, vengeful Empire, Bridger has become his tentative ally. 

Whether that is for better or worse, only time will be able to tell. 

“Uh, thanks,” Bridger says, sounding both surprised and grateful. “That would be great, actually. But mind if I use the ‘fresher quick first? I have a few blaster-burns that I want to take care of. And it might be useful to know if there’s some bacta on board...” he waits for Thrawn’s nod of approval, then slides out of his seat. He walks steadily, someone confident in space, young head swinging about with curiosity. As Thrawn watches him depart, he notices that unlike their time in the jungle, the skywalker does not keep one hand always resting upon his lightsaber. 

_It appears that I have earned myself some trust from Bridger as well. Perhaps, this shift from outright adversaries towards tentative allies is not mine alone._

Thrawn turns his attention towards the ship’s various sensors and dials, rubbing a hand over his smooth chin. Like all of his people, he’d first learned the skills of flying and hyperspace jumps from the Navigators: young, Force-sensitive Chiss who used their powers to intuit the movements and flow of direction in space. He’d become fond of piloting ships by himself, without the Force, and once arriving in the Empire he’d often made time for his own recreational flights. The casual practice is now paying off as he gazes upon a foreign ship, arranging the mechanics of flight in his mind. Takeoff had not been a difficulty; but hyperspace jumps, however, he’d like to research further before making an attempt. No need to have another incident like with the purrgil. 

Bridger arrives at his side, chuckling at the expression his face must be wearing. 

“Having some issues with this junker?” he asks, patting the dashboard. “I’m no pilot, but I did a little research while walking about. Looks like this is a Corellian built Aurore freighter--kinda funny that we got it on the planet _Aurora_ , huh?--and that it’s been around for _long_ before the Clone Wars.” His smile falters a little. “Looking at the size of that cargo hold, I’m almost certain that this was one of those ships for Zygarrian slavers.” 

This time, Thrawn knows that the intensity of his wince is visible.

He can almost see the furrow in Vanto’s brow, the irate set of his jaw as he stands before him.

 _“What’re ya tellin’ me right now, Sir?” he asks, nostrils flaring. “That you_ **_knew_ ** _the Empire had been transportin’ Wookiee slaves with your ships? That you_ **_knew_ ** _that your people were dealin’ in living cargo, usin; flesh-and-blood_ **_people_ ** _as bartering chips?” His dark eyes flash with pain and frustration, daring Thrawn to attempt a thin lie._

_“Yes,” Thrawn replies, feeling a chill settle inside of him at the other man’s glare. “Yes, I am aware. The Wookiees are...Imperial assets.”_

_He will never forget Vanto’s expression. “With your permission,_ **_Sir,_ ** _I need some air.” For all the stiff formality, Vanto doesn’t wait for Thrawn’s permission. He turns swiftly, almost violently, stalking away from his commanding officer down the hallway. From the clench of his shoulders to his shaking fists, Thrawn can feel that he’s done something deeply and terribly wrong._ _That something between them has just shattered and broken._

“Um, _hello_?” Bridger says, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

“Stars to Thrawn? Are you in there, Blue Man?” The human-- _not_ Eli, not even _close--_ is standing before him. His face holds humor, but also an expression of mild concern. “You just sort of faded out there. Where’d you go?” He cocks his head, watching Thrawn like a particularly fascinated Loth-cat. 

“P-pardon me, Bridger.” He doesn’t mean to stammer, but he’s been caught by the memory with such suddenness and intensity. “I am fatigued. As I suspect you are also.” 

He turns away from the ship’s navigation, walking towards gally and its rounded table. He takes a seat, gesturing for the skywalker to sit across from him. After a moment, the human does, plopping down into the opposite chair and kicking his feet up on the table. Thrawn feels himself recovering as he wrinkles his nose at this lack of decorum, and feels a flicker of irritation as Bridger begins to whistle off-key. “So! Let’s talk about Silly.” 

“ _Csilla,”_ Thrawn corrects. Bridger grins, then gestures for him to continue. “The correct name of the core planet is Csilla.” 

“Okay. Csilla,” Bridger grins. “Now tell me more. Is this the planet where you were born? Does everybody come out blue and red-eyed? Do you have good friends, or at least powerful allies, that won’t mind how long you’ve been away?” He hardly breathes between his questions. “Actually, there’s a few more questions in that. How did you end up with the Empire? Why did you live your home in the first place?” His eyebrows creep upward, and he doesn’t wait for any answers. “Did you get corrupted? _Kidnapped?_ Were you the best student at your school, and they needed a brainiac for ISB? I’ve always wondered if--” 

“Bridger, _please.”_ Thrawn interrupts. He raises a hand, pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s _very_ close to losing his patient composure. “Let us proceed with one question at a time.” 

The human kicks his boots from the table, sitting up and folding his hands excitedly. In that moment, Thrawn feels a small piece of his impatience melting away: the curiosity and brightness of the boy reminds him of young Vurawn, so eager for knowledge so long ago. _Should he have been born into my time on Rentor, and attended in the same Academy there, would this skywalker and I have been classmates? Perhaps, even friends?..._

Bridger picks absently at his nose, and Thrawn’s curiosity falters. 

“Let me see...where to begin….I shall provide you with the basic details; and then, once you hold that information, I shall endeavor to fill in the gaps. Does that sound agreeable?” He watches the boy straighten up and bob his head, and he continues. “Very well. I believe that it would be advantageous for us to return to my people, my homeworld network of the Chiss Ascendency, so that we might have respite and protection while further making our future plans.” 

Bridger nods. “Make sense! So you’ve been in contact with your friends and family there?” 

_Hmm. How to answer such a question._ Thrawn steeples his fingers. “I shall not attempt to explain the complexity of the Ascendency family networks nor politics now. But suffice it to say that, yes, I have more or less been in contact with those I consider my allies.” He thinks for a moment, reflecting on his most recent contact with the Admiral and her Lieutenant Commander. “It is not common for one of the Chiss to leave our home-planet network of the Ascendency, thus, there is admittedly some lingering hostility. However, if I remain connected to the right people, it ought to secure our safe and hospitable arrival.” 

Bridger frowns slightly. “ _Ought_ to?” he asks. “I thought that you said this was our ‘safe option’ while hiding out from the Empire.” 

Thrawn’s look silences him, apparently a good reminder that Bridger had promised to hold back his questions and wait until he was done. After gathering himself, Thrawn continues. “Csilla is the Ascendency’ long-time nexus of power. I was not born there; I was born on Rentor, one of the many planets within the Ascendency’s network. It is well-secured and well hidden: like many humans, you would not recognize it upon a map, and would locate it within what you call your Unknown Regions.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “The Chiss Ascendency does not like outsiders.” 

His traveling companion snorts. “This just keeps getting better and better. Sounds like you _really_ picked out the best destination.” 

Thrawn narrows his eyes at Bridger, who waves a dismissive and playful hand. With forced patience, he carries on. “At one time, Csilla was a dangerous and powerful presence in the universe. However, after the collapse and dimming of our primary star, the planet has become far less hospitable; and, regrettably, far less influential. Today, the ruling Ascendency finds their power in silence and secretiveness, preferring to keep the ice planet hidden rather than to engage in the games of galactic war.” He steeples his hands, eyeing Bridger. “No doubt you have noticed my hesitancy to reveal information about myself and my people. This is not so much a trait of my character as it is a hallmark of Chiss survival.” 

From across the table, Bridger nods thoughtfully. “I understand that...a _bit._ It’s kind of like Tarkintown. Without the resources, you gotta keep your head low to the ground. Otherwise, it'll get crushed.” 

It is not a perfect similarity, but he can see the attempt at connection. “Fair enough,” he replies to the boy. “As to my relationship to the residents of my planet, and how I came to be with the Empire: that story is far more complicated, and shall have to wait for another time.” He watches Bridger’s face wrinkle in disappointment, and he adds, “What I will share with you, however, is this: that my departure was not unnoticed by my adversaries nor allies, nor was it without ramifications. It is very possible that I will be caught up within the midst of some… _political_ turmoil upon my return. But that is not to be unexpected, nor unmanageable.” His lips twist into a smile at Bridger’s face. “You were expecting that I was some sort of hero?” 

“Well, just not a _criminal,”_ Bridger chuckles. “Who would have thought? Grand Admiral Thrawn, the _chaotic_ _rebel!”_

He blinks at skywalker, allowing the mixture of irritation and amusement to stay submerged. _Yes. I thought that you might interpret my actions in such a manner._ “I am no longer a Grand Admiral,” he settles for a reply. “And once we arrive, it will be most important for you to remember that detail. Please refer to me only by my core name, Thrawn; or, if you prefer, I can teach you how to say my name as it comes from _Chenuh_ , the language of my people: _Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”_

Bridger breaks into a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Mith-raw-new-rodeo?” he repeats.

Thrawn winces at the human’s mangling of his name with poor Basic. “I believe that I will come to regret this,” he mutters. “Never mind. For now, let us just settle with Thrawn. That should suffice.” He sighs, a wash of sudden tiredness flooding over him. “Bridger, I have programmed the coordinates of our destination into this ship. Is it possible that you’d provide supervision for the next few hours? I am sorely in need of rest, and our travel is likely to take us far longer.” 

The human gives him a two-fingered salute. “No problem, New Rodeo _._ Hey though, if we’re going by first names, you might as well call me mine? It’s Ezra, you know. I’m _Ezra_ Bridger.” 

Thrawn pauses on his walk to the doorway, looking over his shoulder. The boy is still smiling openly at him, and he appears to have let down most of his prior defenses. At this moment, he seems once again quite innocent and young; not at all the Commander of the Rebel Alliance, but the young boy from Lothal, just brushing up now against his twenties, recently missing his family and losing his mentor. _Foolish,_ he thinks. _But not unlike Vanto, in his willingness to open himself up to strangers._

“Very well, Ezra Bridger. Thank you for your kindness in this matter.” 

He makes his way back towards the ship’s personal quarters, hoping that this offering of trust will not be a mistake on his part. As he’d decided before: only time will tell. This fragile alliance might be the only thing keeping them outside of the Empire’s restrictive grasp. And, while it feels distinctly unnatural, he finds himself wanting to trust the young skywalker who had caused them such trouble. 

* * *

_Thrawn stares at the ensign’s mouth._

_“Let’s start with somethin’ manageable,” he drawls, the Wild Space accent thick and warm on his dexterous tongue. “I know that you’re clearly an intelligent man, so this whole bein’ a ‘language tutor’ to you isn’t going’ to break my back. Way I reckon, you’ll be the one teaching_ **_me_ ** _in no time!” He glances up, eyelashes fanning thick and dark over the depth of his eyes. Thrawn cannot understand a word of it; but he doesn’t have to._

_“Ambongililu,” Ensign Vanto says carefully. “Welcome.”_

_“Welcome,” Thrawn repeats. “Ambongililu.”_

_“That’s it!” Vanto praises. Thrawn watches as his tanned cheeks flush with excitement, and as he raises a work-callus hand to brush a lock of fallen, brown hair out of his face. “See, what did I tell you? You’ve already mastered Sy Bisti among other languages, so this form of Galactic Basic is gonna be a walk through the park.” He drops his gaze down to the flimsy page of his dictionary once more, scanning for other helpful words._

_“Alright, let’s try this one in a phrase: ngoyekwimokile. I welcome you.”_

_“I welcome you,” Thrawn echoes. “Ngoyekwimokile.”_

_Something flutters inside of his stomach when the Ensign flashes a crooked smile at him. “Oh kriff, that was almost_ **_too_ ** _easy. Either I’m a hell of a teacher, or you’re a certified genius, and I’m way out of my league here.” He coughs slightly, looking down. Although Thrawn cannot understand, he notices the tension of his facial and throat muscles; the slight heat that rises from under his shirt and unfolds against his chest. “Uh, not like, you know, a league-league.” He waves a hand. “Krayt spit, you don’t even know what I’m sayin’ right now. Nevermind that.”_

_Thrawn tilts his head. He smiles, the gesture pulling unfamiliar and tight at his lips._

_“Krayt spit,” he repeats. “As you said before.”_

_Ensign Vanto jumps, eyes widening and then narrowing. “Okay. I know that we haven’t gone over phrases like that yet. You know a_ **_lot_ ** _more than you’re lettin’ on, Thrawn. Maybe you should just tell me what words you_ **_don’t_ ** _know as they come up, instead of lettin’ me make a fool of myself by pretending to teach you.”_

_Thrawn smiles again. This time, it feels easier. “Very well, Ensign.”_

_To his surprise, this makes the blush and the tension increase. The other man drops his head, eyes falling on the opened book between them. “You can just call me ‘Eli’ right now. Don’t have to use work titles when we’re just hangin’ out.” He looks up, meeting Thrawn’s staring confusion. “Eli Vanto is my name. Ensign is my title. When we’re just practicing words or spending time in our dorm room, you don’t have to bother with that. Makes it kinda weird.”_

_He chuckles, and there is that feeling of melting inside of Thrawn again._

_He’s not used to it, and it makes him recoil ever slightly._

_“Er, you don’t_ ** _have_** _to,” Eli emphasizes, mis-reading Thrawn’s expression. “Kriff it! You really do_ _understand every word that I’m saying, don’t ya? Heh heh, our supervisors are far less bright than I thought.” He closes the book, studying his new Academy roommate with those dark and intelligent eyes. “If they were fully aware of your value, you’d already be long gone from here. Hell, I suspect that you’d still be walking in that garden with the Emperor, if they realized what’s going on inside of that head.”_

 _This time, it’s Thrawn who feels himself blushing. It’s…unexpected._ _He hasn’t reacted that way in such circumstances for a long time._

_“You think too highly of me, Eli Vanto.”_

_It’s too difficult for him to drop all the other man’s titles, given his acquaintance with family long family names and built-in ranking. Simply using the core name of a total stranger feels too...intimate. It bothers him that these humans of the Empire have already assumed such immediate familiarity in calling him Thrawn. He’d only meant to assist the words of their first encounter…_

_“Nah,” his roommate replies. Thrawn looks up, seeing the ensign watching him. “I’m thinkin’ that you might just have it backwards.”_

_Thrawn can intuit what that means from the other man’s voice, but he still wants to ask. He will always ask Ensign Eli Vanto. Any chance to hear him talk: to see words falling from that friendly, clever mouth; to hear that careful, clear attention directed at him; he will take it. “Backwards?” he asks, voice soft and curious._

_Vanto chuckles. “Ompindalu eyolangeli. Not correct."_

_Thrawn smiles, his heart fluttering oddly inside of his chest. He wonders if he might be sick, after being transported from the jungle planet of his exile and into a wholly new environment at this Imperial Academy. It would make sense, given the unusual nature of his physical reactions to this other man. For now, however, it is enough to linger in the warmth of his presence._

* * *

The ship lurches unsteadily, waking Thrawn from his restless dreams. 

“ _ What…?” _ disoriented, he feels the threads of the memory slipping away from him. Recall quickly follows a glance at the battered surroundings: faded bedsheets, patch-repaired walls, the shuddering groan of a ship rapidly losing altitude.  _ Rapidly losing…!  _ He shakes his head, clearing the last of the tiredness from his eyes. “Bridger?” 

He stumbles into the control area. “ _ Ezra  _ Bridger _. _ Has something gone wrong? We appear to be losing altitude at an unprecedented rate.” 

The human skywalker is hovering over the controls. He throws a worried look over his shoulder, gesturing for Thrawn to come closer. “You can say that again,” he says, eyes scanning over the many flashing lights. “I don’t know what happened! I swear, I didn’t even  _ touch _ anything! All of a sudden, the ship started overheating and groaning, and we began taking a nose-dive towards the closest gravity well!” 

Thrawn joins him at the controls, scanning the readout. He’s spoken true: nothing has changed beyond the brilliant-red flash of warning signals.

“We are within the orbital pull of another planet?” he asks, leaning so that he can see the nav-screens for himself. “That is just as well. Crash-landing certainly isn’t pleasant, but it is better than running dry and floating adrift in open space.” The human goggles at him, and he blinks. “Is something the matter?” 

Ezra Bridger laughs, and it borders the edge of hysterics. 

“ _Is something_ _the matter,_ Thrawn?!” he grips onto the sleeves of Thrawn’s loose-fitting tunic, giving him a little shake. “ _OUR SHIP IS CRASHING!_ Could you at least be a _little_ bit human in this dire moment?!” The younger man blinks up at him, wild-eyed and pleading. “I’ve had some rough landings, sure, but I’ve always been with Hera. And she’s the best pilot in the _galaxy._ We’re a couple of _nerfs.”_

Thrawn leans back, tugging the fabric from his grip.  _ “ _ I am not human,” he replies simply. 

Ezra Bridger stands frozen, caught between a laugh and a sob. One of his eyes twitches, and then he recovers. Whirling towards the controls, he begins pounding at random buttons. “You got this boat going, yeah? You’ve got to be able to know the safety procedures!” He pushes against the manual breaks, and the ship makes a  _ terrible  _ grating sound. “ _ Whoop _ , nope, not that! At least, not until we break atmosphere--” 

“Step aside,” Thrawn instructs calmly. He moves to the skywalker’s place, returning the mismatched buttons to order. “If I attempt to steer, would you attempt to construct a shield?” 

He stares at Thrawn, who makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.  _ One can only provide so much patience. _ “Might you apply your use of the Force to slow down our impact upon the planet? I shall guide us towards a suitable landing, while you create a protective shell around the base and the hull by applying resistance. Would it not be sufficient to push against the molecules of the atmosphere, which will push back against you, thereby creating a state of pressure between ourselves and our landing?” When the boy blinks at him owlishly, he asks, “What?” 

“That’s not how the Force works!” Ezra Bridger protests.

Thrawn purses his lips. “Then we will have to send out a distress signal, contacting anyone within the vicinity of the landing area. It would risk our exposure, to be sure, but it would also secure our safe landing upon the planet.” He waits, watching the skywalker wrestle with the discomfort of being captured by Imperial sympathizers, or with the distress of attempting something beyond his understanding of Force capabilities. 

After a long, tense moment, he nods. 

_ “Fine,”  _ he says tersely. “I don’t honestly believe that... _ whatever  _ you said is possible. But you trusted me with the squallyhawlks earlier, so I’m going to trust you with this, and try it.” Turning towards the back of the ship, making his way hurriedly towards the hull, he calls back to Thrawn, “Try to keep it steady and level as you can, alright?! I’m gonna do what I can once we break the atmosphere and get closer. If you can tell from up there that it’s not working by the time that we get within several klicks…” he pauses at the doorway, hands resting on either side. “...then, make the distress call. But not until then!” 

Thrawn watches his retreating form, smiling slightly. “I doubt that it shall come to that,” he murmurs. “For I believe that you can.” 

* * *


	5. Thrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn and Ezra track down repairs for their ship. First, they work together; then, not so much.

* * *

**FIVE | THRAWN**

* * *

The air is hot, and palm trees wave above the swirling dunes of arched sand. The shifting, loose clods of the substrate move silkily beneath the feet, making it hard for one to stand tall and with proper posture. Not that it _matters_ ; Thrawn and Ezra are stained now with sweat and grime from their week-long trek across the local desert. Compared to his anticipation of a homecoming on Csilla, the heat of this dry, dusty planet is nearly _insufferable_ to Thrawn's patience. 

“You _want_ to give us those parts for our ship,” Ezra Bridger chatters at the salesperson. He leans against the counter amiably, waving two closed fingers before their eyes. 

The human salesperson frowns back at him, their forehead wrinkling in confusion and suspicion, and Thrawn feels a knife of uncertainty slice through his calm reserve. He watches the human narrow their green eyes, pucker their black-painted lips in disbelief, and he wonders if he has miscalculated their approach. _Jedi mind tricks are fickle,_ he thinks, watching the salesperson flip a lock of curly, green-dyed hair over their shoulder. _And the people of this planet are shrewd. It’s possible that we have made a grave error of judgement..._

But then, they smile at Ezra and nod in understanding. “I want to give you those parts for your ship!” they offer. 

The skywalker standing next to Thrawn beams. He throws a quick, sideways look at the Chiss, who maintains his stony-faced silence and simply stares back at him. Ezra clears his throat, focusing on the deed. He narrows his eyes, lifts his two fingers once again to make the gesture of suggestion and manipulation through the Force. “Awesome! And I'm also so glad that you're going to make the cost totally free." 

“I’m giving it all to you totally free,” the salesperson agrees. “Do you require assistance?” 

Thrawn nudges Ezra with the toe of his boot. The skywalker feels the gesture, and he hurries to add, “Uh, yes! Yes please! That would be excellent. Just--just tell them that the details of our deal are complete, okay? No more questions needed to be asked.” He shoots Thrawn a nervous, yet hopeful and confident look. Thrawn smiles back thinly in return, proud of the boy's expertise and calm under pressure. 

"I’ll get my repair crew," the salesperson answers. 

As soon as they turn their back, Ezra swings a triumphant fist, punching Thrawn squarely in the arm. Thrawn, who is _not_ accustomed to being treated such way by neither allies nor adversaries, reels unsteadily with surprise in the spot. This, of course, brings a bubble of laughter to the young man’s grinning lips. “Aw, c’mon, Uncle!” he teases, linking elbows with Thrawn. “Lighten up! Smile! _We did it!_ ” 

Patting the skywalker’s arm, Thrawn favors him with the thinnest smile.

He's inclined to agree. Not only had they managed to land their ship _(named “Junker” by Ezra Bridger)_ successfully according to his plan, but they’d also managed to accomplish it without alerting their presence to the local authorities. Clad in their nondescript attire, walking among unknowing citizens, Thrawn and Ezra had easily made their way to the nearest airship stop, acquiring both fuel and repairs through the skywalker’s power. Once again, the Force-user has proven himself to be quite useful. 

In fact, Thrawn suspects that much of the Empire's failure to capture the _Spectures_ comes in large part from the pair of skywalkers. 

“Tell me more about Auntie?” Ezra asks eagerly, bobbing alongside Thrawn as they follow the salesperson back to the repair yard. Thrawn wrinkles his nose, regretting that he had brought up _anyone_ from his Ascendency life to the boy, let alone his prestigious commander. He'd been trying to prepare the human for a smooth arrival, but it seems that he'd only piqued his endless and irreverent curiosity.

Watching his sour face, the skywalker laughs. "Okay, fine," he amends. "I know that you said that it isn’t _like_ _that_ between you two. But we don’t have another code-name for her, so…?” He grins up at Thrawn expectantly. "...tell me more!" 

Thrawn shakes Ezra off his arm. “You are _exceptionally_ poor at stealth,” he grumbles.During their long, laborious walk through the local desert, Thrawn had told him of the people they might encounter upon arrival at Csilla. Most importantly, he’d briefed Ezra on his admiral, Ar’Alani: the leader of the Chiss military force, and his longtime, most trustworthy acquaintance...with the exception, of course, of his former aide, Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto. _But I am not prepared to discuss that._

“It is essential that once we arrive on Csilla, you learn to speak with far more decorum,” Thrawn instructs.

Ezra rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture, and Thrawn fights back the urge to open his mouth and _hiss_ at the child. “Nephew _,”_ he growls, “you lack proper understanding. I am far more lenient than most of my people. I assure you, if you are to approach Admiral Ar’Alani with that kind of disrespect, it will be mere moments until she calls for your execution.”

The words don’t land with the impact that he’d hoped. Ezra just rolls his eyes and turns away. 

Upon reflection, Thrawn should have known that the skywalker would be unnaturally curious about the Chiss woman. He regretted his descriptive words of her as “lovely, long-haired, and keenly intelligent” almost as instantly as he’d uttered them. Thrawn had only meant to be practical in his observations: and yet, young Ezra had clung to them like a proper love confession. ( _Which, in a previous lifetime, would not have been untrue. However, Thrawn is not the Mitth'raw'nuruodo of his childhood; and, by now, he has devoted far more time to the art of war than than the practice of romance)._

Back still turned, Ezra quips: “And what about _Eli?”_

Thrawn startles, flinching as though he’s just been punched by the skywalker again.

The question uttered in such a casual voice makes his mouth go dry, his heart rise to racing inside of his chest. With a horrible feeling of being exposed, he watches the young man turn around and cross his arms, studying him. _When did I...how do you...what does you_ **_know_ ** _?_ Ezra shrugs, as though reading his thoughts clearly through the Force. “You talk in your sleep,” he confesses, equal parts curious and careful. “So, what about him? Who is he?” Thrawn’s face must show _something,_ because he softens.

“Clearly, he matters.” 

Thrawn glares at Ezra. _Yes, Eli_ **_matters_** _. He matters more than you could possibly comprehend. He matters enough to be entrusted with private matters of my people; enough to be sent on ahead to the Ascendency, and my admiral. He matters enough to be my singular and most trustworthy companion: my voice and my ears, the one who holds my words inside of his hands. He is enough to rise above anyone else; enough that I’ve fallen, so_ **_far,_ ** _without him as my guide and compass._

_He matters to more than_ **_anyone_ ** _else._

“I must admit, I am surprised to hear you speaking that name.” Thrawn shuffles the tangle of feelings inside of himself, searching for territory that seems sturdy enough to walk on. “Almost as much as I find this new information about my...sleep patterns...disturbing.” He catches Ezra smirking at him, but the skywalker quickly corrects himself under Thrawn’s sternness. “Lieutenant Commander Eli Vanto once served as my aide-de-camp in the Empire. While under pressure, I often relied on his valued opinion.” 

Ezra blinks rapidly. Then, his face falls into suspicion. 

“And so he, what, got fired? Met an untimely end before you left the Empire?” His arms are still crossed, and he looks at Thrawn with a gaze that reminds him of those earlier days--the ones before their fragile alliance, and the beginnings of trust had been built. “Or was it more of an Agent-Kallus-to-Lieutenant- Lyste type of situation, where one of them framed and got rid of the other once he wasn’t useful anymore?” Surprisingly, Ezra’s cobalt-blue eyes fog with concern. 

And, with a rush of understanding, Thrawn finds himself placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“We did not part under such circumstances,” he replies quietly. “And I assure you, Ezra Bridger: I have no intention of discarding you.” When Ezra startles, looking both pleased about this strange promise and foolish about his own anxious expression, Thrawn adds: “It would be irrational, even _foolish_ , to discard such a capable, Force-sensitive ally.” At this return to cool logic, Ezra appears to be convinced. He nods his head once. 

_When did I start caring for the boy’s thoughts and feelings?_ Thrawn muses, gazing down at the hand still resting on Ezra’s shoulder. _Perhaps, after investing trust in another._

It is still very strange, and quite unnatural: after years of being at odds, they have found a new kind of reluctant system of tension and balance. At times, Thrawn cannot stand the boy’s immaturity and lack of intelligence; likewise, he knows that the human finds him peculiar, off-putting and extravagant. However, after this time of travel, they’ve survived much together--purrgil and squallyhawlk, jungles and deserts, hostile Imperials and curious foreigners. Even after two crashes, both of them remain standing...and it would not be possible without the intervention of the other. 

_Perhaps, it would be incorrect for me at this point if I did_ **_not_ ** _care for his well-being._

One of the _Junker’_ s mechanics waves Ezra over, and the Force-user departs to answer her questions. Thrawn watches him go, observing how the boy’s blue-black hair has once again grown shaggy and long; how he has grown farther into his lanky form, filling it out with lean, adult muscle; how he’s become far more confident in his abilities, more than even when he’d made the jump on Lothal. 

_He is not Vanto,_ Thrawn thinks, watching the young human move about the area. _Then again, no one is._

Something stirs in his gut when Thrawn considers how time and distance might have impacted his friend. _Is Vanto taller now?_ he wonders, thinking of how the Lysatran’s head only came up to his chest. _Does he still wear the black of those under Chiss command?_ _Or--_ and he swallows, feeling the core inside of him burn-- _perhaps, he is now a commander himself?_

It _does_ something to Thrawn, thinking of Eli Vanto clad once again in those brilliant, immaculate whites. 

“Looks like we should be ready to go in a couple of hours,” Ezra says, arriving and rubbing his hands. “What do you think, Uncle? Wanna go for a walk, check out the market?” He looks young and cheerful, and his eyes sparkle with mischief. Thrawn knows that look: the skywalker is raring to pull off some kind of trick. Hopefully, one that results in their timely dinner.

“Very well,” he replies, turning and opening a space for Ezra to pass by. It seems as though he’s grown used to the chaos. “We have, as you often say, _‘some time to kill._ ’” 

He follows the human out to the path, leaving footprints on the substrate behind them. With any luck, they'll be launching back into the chilled, starry atmosphere before nightfall. And, if all things should go according to plan, they'll be setting a course for Csilla before dawn. The center of Chiss Ascendency power: the place where the likes of Admiral Ar'alani, Eli Vanto, and countless others shall be waiting for them. 

Thrawn finds himself feeling far more wary than excited. 

* * *

_“Are you alright?” Thrawn asks, hovering over Eli Vanto._

_His taller form, illuminated by the sunset behind them, casts a long, dusky shadow over his fallen roommate. In the evening colors of pink, ruby-red and purple soak into the human’s features, revealing the way that his chest is heaving and the color of blood on his broken lip. From the infa-red, Thrawn can see the way that his pulse has risen, how his muscles are clenched in alarm and shock after the moment of quickly-summoned adrenaline._

_Understandable. Being on the receiving end of an ambush does such things to people._

_“I’m fine,” Vanto replies shortly. He reaches up, takes Thrawn’s open hand. “You?” With a pull of the strong core muscles of his upper body, the Lysatran man heaves himself up to standing. He looks wild-eyed and winded, and his head swivels upon his shoulders in anticipation of other incoming danger._

_“My injuries are minor, despite appearances,” he replies. “Your assistance was most timely. Thank you.”_

_A different kind of flush moves over Vanto now. His pulse becomes erratic, and his desert-brown eyes flicker away. “M’sorry,” he replies, sounding...embarrassed? Thrawn cannot fathom why. “Sorry I wasn’t more useful, and couldn’t do more. I was on the wrong side of the hedge.” Vanto winces, rubbing at the sore back of his head. “Obviously, given the way that ya reacted, you were more prepared. I gather that you heard them comin’?” He asks, voice carrying that pleasant, Wild Space twang._

_Thrawn’s eyes flicker up and down the human man. He does not appear to be harmed, neither in body nor in spirits. Excellent; he wouldn’t want harm to come to his trusted guide._

_“There is a particular tread that all predators tend to use,” he replies to the other man smoothly. “It is a balance between silence and speed. Humans, too, use a variation of this tread.” When Vanto quirks an eyebrow at him, curiosity and humor melted into one kind of warmth, Thrawn smiles thinly. “I am not in the habit of becoming prey.”_

_“No,” Vanto replies, his own smile replying in kind. “I bet that ya aren’t.”_

_A different kind of quiet--the comfortable, now familiar kind of silence--settles between them. The sidewalk on which they stand is not isolated from noise: indeed, all around them one can hear the rushing of speeders, the crackling of neon lights, the echoing drone of holo-advertizements. And yet, as Thrawn stands with his roommate and catches his breath, he is far more aware of the relaxed and companionable nature between them: the gratitude that moves unspoken in this time when they survived the odds._

_“Thanks for gettin’ me out of the way,” Vanto chuckles. The warm, humble sound of it makes Thrawn’s smile widen too. “I’ve done just enough time now to know that I’m not good at this.”_

_Thrawn stares at him patiently, waiting for more. When no other words are issued from his Academy classmate, he replies, “You are welcome. However, know that I consider your efforts to be...exemplary.” As Vanto raises his other eyebrow, Thrawn continues: “It is true. Without your assistance, it is likely that I would have faced far more brutal attacks. Perhaps, it is even possible that I would not be walking away from here, but hovering away in a med-stretcher.”_

_Vanto glances away, cheeks and chest flushing with heat. In the gathering darkness of night, Thrawn cannot see the color so much as sense it in the infa-red._

_“There is no need to be so modest, Eli Vanto,” he finishes softly. “You are my aid. And without your assistance, I would no doubt be lost.”_ _The other man is quiet, still looking away. Thrawn can see the musculature of his neck working as he swallows--perhaps from discomfort, perhaps disagreement. Regardless, he admires the courageous and fiery nature of his human companion. Nearly half a foot shorter than himself, and with more than a decade of years spread between them, Thrawn knows that they are not equals. And yet, more and more, Eli Vanto is convincing him that he can carry far more than what is expected of him; far more, and far further, than any of his fellow classmates and humans. Vanto did not have to join in this fight to protect him; no more than he has to offer his daily defenses of Thrawn’s alien race or his character._

_Perhaps, it is reasons such as these, that Thrawn sees something in him both rare and extraordinary._

_Vanto clears his throat.“Shall we go, then?” he asks, blinking at Thrawn in the dark and gesturing towards the Imperial Academy dorms. “It’s going to be properly night soon here, and between that illegal card-game and our little brawl, I think I’ve had enough entertainment for one evening.” He flashes Thrawn a smile, whiteness of his teeth flashing against his tanned skin and the falling dark. “We oughta follow up with Commandant Deenlark tomorrow anyhow….I don’t think that he’d like a visitor at this hour.”_

_Thrawn inclines his head. “Indeed. Let us return to our dorm.”_

_Shadowed in starlight, breathing with much greater ease than before, he falls into step next to Eli Vanto. The sound of their boots click against the pavement, moving each one of their steps into tandem. Each stride moves them farther away from the place of assault, and closer to the place reserved only for the two of them; the singular place in the galaxy where Thrawn is certain that he is safe._

* * *

Thrawn grits his teeth. “This is _not_ safe!” he hisses at Ezra. 

Sitting across the table from him, the young skywalker shrugs and grins. He’s wearing a bag slung over his shoulder--filled with new clothing, armor, and several other travel supplies that he’d smuggled away from various barters--and he’s drinking a thick, yogurt-like liquid from a ceramic cup. When he smacks his lips, pulling the cup away, a frosting of white coats his lip thickly. 

“Relax, Uncle,” he replies, keeping his voice pleasant and low. “If we don’t call attention to ourselves, then everything is gonna be just fine.”

The Chiss finds himself strongly in disagreement. For, sitting at several tables behind them, a trio of none other than what looks like _Storm Troopers_ have settled down for their dinner. Raucous and dirty, they’d taken off their helmets and had begun drinking tankards of the local ale just as Thrawn and Ezra’s dinner had arrived at the table. 

“I cannot fathom why they might venture so far from their posts,” Thrawn mutters distractedly. He stabs at his curry, a buttery-yellow dish filled with sweet coconut milk, stone-fired veg and local spices. After a long trip in the desert with nothing but ration bars and thermoses of lukewarm water, it ought to be enough to soothe and settle his stomach. However, he feels nerves jumping and twitching within him. “I do not recall any positions within this sector...let _alone_ on a junk-pit like Jakku.” 

Ezra snorts, quickly rising his ebony chopsticks to catch a noodle that had been expelled. 

“You’re sounding more and more like a common _rebel_ these days _,”_ he says, grinning at Thrawn from behind his bowl. “Look at you, dunking on such a peaceful and harmless location.” 

Thrawn scowls, flicking away an encroaching sand-beetle. “One doesn’t have to be more than _pedestrian_ to notice that this desert planet has little to offer,” he grumbles. It isn’t true on principle: Thrawn knows that, like many other rural and Outer Rim places, Jakku has much to offer the Empi--its _residents_ . Nothing good has come out from such a place yet, but that doesn’t mean that something or somebody _won’t_ in the future. Jakku could very well be the next Rebellion hideout or base. 

He pauses, chopsticks hovering just before his parted lips. _‘More and more like a rebel.’_ He frowns. 

_“Uh oh,”_ Ezra hums, keeping his eyes on the table. “Uncle? Scratch that: I can sense that one of them just noticed.” Thrawn’s eyes narrow behind his green solar-glasses, and the human nods minutely. “Yeah, not great. Um, he’s not _sure_ , but he thinks that he saw your blue skin. Aw, _Karabast_! He’s getting up and coming this way, isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Thrawn agrees, feeling his mouth tighten into a thinness that makes his lips disappear. “Remain calm, Nephew. We’ll sort this out together.” 

He’d hoped that the skywalker would use his Force talents once again as the Storm Trooper arrived at their table. He’d hoped that Ezra would read his intentions: use stealth to take flight from this place, not to cause any kind of fight or commotion. _However,_ for all that it seems that he’s become more attuned to the ways of the rebels, he’s _still_ not connected with Ezra enough to keep the young man from launching out from his table and fighting. 

“ _For Lothal!”_ Ezra hollars, driving his chopsticks into a gap of the Trooper’s dented armor. 

_“W-what?!”_ the Imperial yelps, lurching back and flailing his arms for balance. “What is-- _who are you--_ ” he yanks the chopsticks embedded in the pneumatic seal of his kneecap, then waves to the Troopers behind him for backup. “We’ve got a Code 14!” he yells, reaching for the blaster down at his hip. “Code 14! Apprehend the prisoner!” 

To only make matters worse, Thrawn watches Ezra draw his lightsaber. 

“ _Nephew!”_ he snarls, “That is _not_ the most wise of tactical positions!” In his motion, Thrawn gathers the chair out from underneath him, and launches it at the incoming Storm Troopers. 

His words are all but drowned out by the startled uproar of the restaurant now. People are yelling with shock and fleeing their seats; blasters being drawn and fired in burning vollies; Ezra is leaping and dancing and _laughing_ as he wields his lightsaber--always enough to do chaos and damage, but never enough to kill his attackers. 

_What in the_ **_stars_ ** _compelled the child to reveal us?!_ He wonders, aiming a kick at the closest Trooper. 

Fortunately, Thrawn and Ezra are both very good fighters. The battle, if one might call it that, does not take long: Ezra manages to knock two of them out with his use of the Force and lightsaber, and Thrawn disarms and sweeps the feet from the other. He’s leveling the man’s fallen blaster at the center of his helmeted head, when Ezra’s hand suddenly wraps around his forearm. 

“No!” he yells, yanking just enough so that the killing blast rockets off to the side. “What are you _doing?!”_

Thrawn glares at the young man, breath heaving in his winded chest. “This is not the time for heroics, _Bridger_ ,” he snaps. “You have given away our position, and _now,_ we must destroy any of the remaining evidence.” He yanks his hand free from the human’s grasp, pointing the muzzle back at the Storm Trooper’s head. “In the season of war, compassion is a vulnerability. Nothing more.” 

Unsurprisingly, Ezra’s eyes darken with fury. _He’s a rebel,_ Thrawn thinks, holding his finger over the trigger. _And mercy has always been the greatest vulnerability of the rebellion._

When he attempts to press down, something stops him. It’s not the skywalker, exactly: he is standing several feet away still, with one foot resting upon the chest of the knocked-out Storm Trooper’s armor. It’s the _Force_ that Ezra wields: strong and unyielding, holding his hand in a frozen grip that will not allow his motion to pass. 

“You’re not going to kill him,” Ezra Bridger declares, his whole body shaking with anger. “You’re going to stun him. Then, we’re going to leave.” 

Once again, Thrawn is gritting his teeth. _Foolish, soft child!_ He snarls internally. _You think that making decisions such as this forgives you of any consequences?! No! We are all guilty in war! And you are only giving up ground to your opponent; ground that they will most certainly use against us!_ And yet, he cannot raise his own power against the overwhelming sensation of the Force working against him. 

Glaring into the fierceness of Ezra’s eyes, he nods once and lowers the blaster. 

“Very well. Have it your way,” he murmurs, handing the weapon over to the skywalker. “But know this: if we are located by your failure to execute justice, then I will hold _you_ personally responsible for what shall happen on our journey next.” 

Ezra takes the blaster from his outstretched hand, flicking the switch over to stun. Once again, his whole posture is simmering with hateful anger. 

“Well, then it’s just like we’ve said before. What happens next happens to both of us.” 

Taking several, quick shots with the weapon set to stun, the skywalker blasts the Storm Trooper’s helmeted head. And as Thrawn watches their mutual adversary collapse into the dust--his shell-armor stained into a sandy, brilliant red of this barren planet--he cannot help but to feel as though he has, once again, made himself another.

* * *

_“Good day, Lieutenant Vanto.”_

_As soon as the words had fallen from his lips, Thrawn could already see the extent of his error._

_In his concentrated effort to appear calm and stoic under the pressure of seeing his friend once again, he had chosen his first (and last) words to the other man poorly. Thrawn could see it in the tight, cold expression that had settled upon the other man’s face. He could see it in the way that his earth-toned eyes had shuttered closed, throwing the coldness and distance of wild space between them. He could see it in the shift of his color; the change of his pulse; the shift of his jawline._

_And he sees it now: in the stiff, unyielding silence as his former aid strides away from his presence._

_But what else should he say? Where else could he hope to begin, to express what he has become in the other man’s absence? There are not enough words on this ship, in this galaxy, that can encompass what he wants to articulate in Eli Vanto’s presence._

_Despite his expression of hurt and offense, Vanto had appeared to look well. As usual, the human man had been the shortest person in the room--not that Thrawn and Ar’alani are normative, with each of them standing over six feet tall--and yet, his presence had radiated a calm, composed power that has only been bolstered by his new rank. The human’s brown, shaggy hair had been carefully groomed into tousled artistry; his warm, earth-tone eyes had held both the compassion and confidence of a trustworthy leader; and his strong (seemingly, now well-toned) shoulders are smoothly bearing the weight of command. It appears as though Admiral Ar’alani has made good on her word, and has treated his former colleague with only the greatest fairness._

_Which is more than he can say for himself._

_“_ ** _Good day?”_ ** _Thrawn snarls aloud to himself, fingernails biting into the flesh of his hands._

_After all of this time, he cannot utter anything else? After all that the pair of them have survived, he cannot formulate anything more substantial? These poor, hollow words are not enough for someone the magnitude of Eli Vanto. And, after all of these days, imagining what it might mean to stand together once again...after all of these nights, all of those dreams, with the other man’s name sweet and heavy upon his lips...he cannot_ **_bear_ ** _to face the other again._

_Not after such failure. Not when he is so unworthy of such a friend._

_Thrawn stalks down the hallway, making a pathway directly toward his sparring chamber. He doesn’t pause to change outfits: he slams open the door, tears off the brilliant, Grand Admiral whites of the Empire, and throws the cloth from his heaving shoulders. Actions undermining his stone-faced composure, Thrawn grasps for the nearest staff and keys up a trio of DT-series sentry droids._

**_Composure! You cannot afford to express your feelings! You cannot and will not be vulnerable._ **

_Thus, he is forced to articulate himself in the medium that he’s come to favor while among fellow Imperials: dismantling others through the art of combat._ _Thrawn turns, facing the first security droid as it unfolds rapidly from its holster. It raises and blinks a pair of red eyes, scanning him for the most-likely starting positions. As usual, he anticipates the first strike of the droid, ducking and sliding smoothly away. Thrawn turns and spins sharply on his heel, stabbing out with the blunt end of his sparring staff, aiming for the knee-joint of its mechanics._

_The first droid collapses. The second unravels._

**_Fool!_ ** _He snarls at himself, striking at both his old and new opponents with bone-breaking force._ **_You should have known to be more prepared! You should have known that you’d be insufficient!_ ** _As Thrawn slams his forearm into one droid and aims a shattering kick at the other, he suffers again the visual pain of his former friend, disheartened and torn._

_That shadowed look in his eyes...betrayal. That hardened twist of his mouth...resolution._

**_You have lost him,_ ** _he thinks, battering the second and third battle droid with a volley of arm-burning blows and punches._ **_You have finally stumbled over the line, injured your friendship permanently._ ** _It does not matter that Thrawn had spent years cultivating a pathway of success for the man; it doesn’t matter that he’d secured the safest place for him in the dangerous galaxy, or placed him under his admiral’s command._

_Because he’d gone right ahead and_ **_hurt_ ** _Eli Vanto. He’d inflicted wounds; and of nature far more enduring than sparring bruises._

_Spiraling the staff within his hand, Thrawn strikes two of the droids at once. Hissing with anger, he stabs through the face-mask of the one that is nearest; with a wrench and a powerful sweep, he withdraws the weapon and stabs at the other. In a crumble of metal and sound, he watches the second and third droid collapse to the ground. And, as he makes short work of the final, he wishes down to his core that every blow might be directed inward._ ** _No,_ ** _he tells himself, standing over the detritus and the crumbled remains._ ** _You haven’t lost Vanto._**

**_One cannot lose what has never been claimed from the start._ **

* * *

  
  



	6. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra and Thrawn arrive on Csilla, where they are greeted with a frosty welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! The Cheunh words and phrases in this chapter are adapted from the language bot at [FunTranslations.](https://funtranslations.com/cheunh) I'll include some of the words in the End Notes.

* * *

**SIX | EZRA**

* * *

_What are the odds?_ Ezra thinks with a shiver. _I’m standing knee-deep in snow, and I’ve_ **_still_ ** _got_ **_sand_ ** _in my boots!_

This glacial desert is far different from the arid one they’d left on Jakku. From the moment that he’d stepped down from the _Junker,_ Ezra had realized that he hadn’t been prepared for the sheer cold that comes from being on a planet encased in thick layers of ice. According to Thrawn, there had been a time when Csilla had been far more hospitable; but that was before their primary star had collapsed, and before the Chiss had moved underground. 

“And no _wonder,_ ” he grumbles, wiping at his nose. “If I had to live somewhere that my _nostrils_ freez shut every time I go outside, I’d want to _bury_ myself, too.” 

When he hears a scoffing noise from behind him, Ezra turns around to see Thrawn. The Chiss’ eyes are glowing brilliantly against the backdrop of the pale, icy landscape. _Wasn’t he nervous about coming here?_ he wonders with amusement, watching Thrawn’s face melting into something that resembles a smile. _Seems pretty chill to me._ And yet, even with his traveling companion returned to his home and in (seemingly) good spirits, he knows that he needs to stay careful. For, as he'd been reminded with the Storm Troopers, they are very different people. And he has no idea _what_ being here will do to the former Imperial.

“Ezra Bridger,” Thrawn says, glowing eyes coming to rest on him brightly. “Come here. I desire to show you something.” 

Suppressing a smile, Ezra scrunches towards him through the thick, powdery snow. In spite of the off-putting cold, he has to admit that Csilla is a _glorious_ portrait of blue, grey and white. All around them are rolling, snow-covered hills and tall, white-capped mountains, scattered in pines bowed heavy with snow. There is far less wildlife on this planet than on Lothal - no Loth-cats or Loth-wolves - but there is still an occasional snowy owl, hooting and extending its fluff-coated claws to grasp onto branches, showering snowflakes. And while he isn’t sure why, Ezra finds himself feeling the strong, pulling _tug_ of the Force all around him, as if something familiar is calling him home. 

He hasn't felt that way since... _well_. For a very _long_ time. 

"Here," Thrawn instructs, stepping aside to make room for his traveling companion. "Just over that ridge." 

The Chiss man is quite tall - taller even than Ezra, who has been growing rapidly in muscle and height - and he appears even bigger and bulkier than normal with the addition of his iron-grey, fur-lined snowsuit. At first the former grand admiral hadn’t _wanted_ to wear one - ( _"the Chiss are an advanced species, Bridger, adapted to sub-zero temperatures beyond your fragile, human insulation”) -_ but after the blizzard had started, he’d begrudgingly donned one with him after all. Now, as the brisk wind pulls at their faces and hair, he doesn’t seem to mind anymore. _Typical._

“Observe,” Thrawn says, waving a mittened hand. “The welcoming gates of Csaplar.” 

Ezra squints.Then feels himself _gasp_. 

They had landed well outside of the city’s walls, yet the crystalline spires of the capitol building can still be seen from miles around. Each of the towers is crafted with a kind of material that he’s never seen before - glittering, water-like, blue iridescence - and it speaks of a craftwork beyond human knowledge. Ezra feels his eyes widen as he takes in the spiraling, fluid patterns and the magnificent flowing archways, wondering how something that delicate could possibly hold up the weight of a living being. 

Paired with the landscape, it isn’t hard for him to imagine where Thrawn had developed his taste for fine art. 

“That’s pretty impressive!” He manages, raising one hand to shield his eyes at the breath-taking sight. “But, uh, why are they up _here_?" he adds. "I thought that you said that the Chiss had all moved underground?” He tugs at the strings of his wampa-furred parka, drawing it more tightly around his stubble cheeks and chin. “Don’t get me wrong, Uncle, I think that it’s pretty cool. But are they just for decoration? Sculptures or something?” 

Thrawn inclines his head. 

“Indeed, you are correct on both accounts. These figures adorn the gateway’s visage. The full city of Csaplar is resting well beneath the surface, protected by the heat of the core and likewise protecting its inhabitants." His eyes trail over the spiraling towers, pulsing in color, and Ezra wonders (not for the first time) if Chiss eyes are like some kind of emotional _mood ring._ "The gateway is both a display of creative power and a precaution against unwanted visitors." 

Ezra quirks one eyebrow in question. 

"They are not mere works of art and architecture," Thrawn croons, his voice proud and seductive. "The buildings themselves are living creatures. My people have adapted a symbiotic relationship with the primitive organisms living upon the planet's frozen surface. Upon agreement, the microscopic _Ice Lyte_ emit a sound of such intense, high-pitched frequency that only Chiss can survive its inner-ear consequences." 

Now, Ezra cringes. He resists the urge to clap his hands preemptively over his ears. 

“Sounds _effective_ ,” he mutters, eyeing Thrawn with distaste. “So you guys really take this whole secrecy thing to a new level, huh?” The image of blood pouring out from a sentient being’s various orficaces makes him shudder beneath the warmth of his parka. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of place for us to drop by unwelcome, though. Are you _sure_ that we oughta be here right now? Otherwise, do you think--” 

Which is, _of course,_ the perfect time for an ambush. 

A squadron of blue-skinned figures bursts from the trees, scattering snow and pine-needles in their wake as they brandish lit weapons. They are clad in dark, stealth-toned, holographic armor, which had cloaked their hunting and arrival in silence. now, Ezra can see that they are encircled by no less than eight, electro-staff armed soldiers. 

"Uncle!" he whispers urgently, moving to stand back-to-back with Thrawn. "Do we fight our way out? How should we handle this?" 

Through the plush of his snowsuit, Thrawn’s back tenses against his own. He has shifted to rest on the balls of his feet, drawn his fists up as though prepared to brawl. Of course, he has no weapon; and by this time of working together to fight their way out of tight spots, Ezra knows that the pair of them are outnumbered. Ezra waits, feeling the cogs of Thrawn's brain whirring to find the best path forward. 

“Follow my lead,” he commands, voice equally low. Then, he lowers his hands...and _bows in surrender._

_“_ _Vimti,"_ he calmly addresses the soldiers. _"Ch’ah ritot vah can vun’arcasi."_

Ezra blinks in surprise. Yes, Thrawn’s voice normally rolls in an elegant tone - but when speaking in the words of his naturally-accented, rolling Cheunh? It makes his sonorous baritone almost _comically_ musical _._ He cranes his head, raising a quizzical eyebrow at the other man, watching him while he completes the formal welcome. 

One of the guards--a man of medium height, well-formed musculature, and an air of authority--bristles in responce.

_"Ber ch'at nuhn csei belongs ch'at vah!"_ he demands. _“Ber mah k'um ch'at rin'hi bah vahn buhn!"_

Straining to understand, Ezra feels pulled between the tension of curiosity and the thrill of adrenaline. He believes that the person, perhaps the captain, has asked for Thrawn's name and his family of origin. He briefly wonders if Thrawn recognizes any of these people, or if any of them recognize him; b _ut_ _no matter how you slice it, maybe answering with his name is the wrong move._ After all, Thrawn had once been forcibly exiled by his people...

_“Ch'eo nuhn carcir Mitth'raw'nuruodo,"_ Thrawn calmly replies. " _Ch'ah rass'ah vun'zasrisei bah ch'eo ch'abcesit, Ar’alani.”_

The group of soldiers noticeably stirs.

_"Vah csaah?!" _ the male figure snaps. 

Ezra watches as the speaker steps forward and draw off his dark, shining helmet. And while he hasn't seen many Chiss other than Thrawn, he can tell right away that this one of Thrawn's fellow soldiers. The apparent captain carries the serious weight of authority, born in the stiffness of his tensed shoulders, the weariness of his intelligent eyes, and the furrow of his quick-thinking brow. 

Thrawn seems to recognize his face, because there is a ripple of curiosity through the Force. 

" _Csei cannot vacosehn vusavco,"_ The captain says, eyes blazing at Thrawn. " _Ar'Alani carcir ch'eo ch'abcesit, vim lah said nan'ei bah an ect'aseo taskeboti vacosetahn vamci!”_

Ezra notes as Thrawn's jaw clench with impatience. He's too slow to catch and translate all the words, but he still hears the name of Thrawn's admiral - Ar'alani - mentioned again. And he _also_ hears the accusation clear in the captain's tone, and the implication that not only are they an unexpected arrival on this planet, but that they are also an unwelcome one. Maybe this person had been a friend or colleague at one time, but it is clear that their roles have changed now. _Kriff,_ Ezra thinks, feeling his heartbeat race.

_Okay, so maybe I was right this time and Thrawn was wrong...but I don't even get the chance to gloat. We're probably gonna die._

Thrawn also seems to be calculating their odds. Seeming to decide on something, he extends his hands in a passive gesture. _“Tteihn Rutbici Ufsa'mak'ro,_ ” he says politely. Ezra recognizes thatstring of sounds as a family name and title. Core name being _Sa'mak'ro_ , if he'd done his homework right. 

“ _Mitth'raw'nuruodo,”_ the man called Samakro replies stiffly. _“Ch’auh bazor ch’ah ber...Rawnu.”_

And _that_ is the greatest surprise of them all. Ezra can't help but keep his eyebrows from jumping upwards as he feels the rush of insult and anger move through the Force, scorching as hot as an ion detonator. He tilts his head to the side in confusion, looking at Thrawn's impassive face while he swirls in the undercurrent of his fury. _Did that guy just call Thrawn by the wrong name? And what does that make him so...angry?_

But Ezra doesn't have time to ponder it much longer; because Samakro is shifting his words into Basic.

“You have a _hirci,”_ he says, pointing roughly at Ezra. The gesture is neither friendly nor threatening, but Ezra Bridger decides to imitate Thrawn’s upturned hand gesture of peace just in case. For some reason, this makes Samakro crack a sardonic smile. He shakes his head, dismissing the human without so much as sparing him a second glance. “How interesting. Is this the latest of your human pets? Yet this one does not appear to be your _k’icetei._ Even if he has just named you as Uncle.” 

Ezra feels another flash of Thrawn's emotional tension. This time, it carries notes of... _embarrassment?_ And powerful sorrow. 

He wants to ask his traveling companion what is going on. Also, strangely enough, he feels strongly compelled to defend him. But just as soon as he opens his mouth, Thrawn turns to look at him sharply and flashes him with a cold, deadly look that commands _SILENCE._ And, for once, Ezra Bridger finds himself not wanting to test him. _Fine. If we're going to get out of this, I need to trust him._

_But you can bet that I'll ask all my questions later._

“This is Ezra Bridger, my personal guard. He is _bazehn ran’caco._ Sky-walker. _”_ Thrawn nods back at Ezra, who feels a prickle of uneasiness at being exposed by this statement. “Wherever I go, he goes as well. So if you must take us now as _ch’ittenasoti_ , be mindful that we will yet have our resources about us. I do understand if you wish to speak to the general before we meet her. Yet, I can assure you, she _will_ accept my _en'zet._ ”

Ezra watches Samakro wrinkle his nose. It’s a bold display of annoyance, considering what he knows of the Chiss.

"And that is your problem, Rawnu," he replies. "You've always thought too highly of yourself."

With a motion of one sleek-gloved hand, he summons the waiting soldiers forward. As they walk through the knee-high, powered snow towards them, one of them takes out a pair of electro-charged binders and extends them to a waiting Ezra. He dutifully allows them to snap the pair on, still watching as another approaches Thrawn. 

"It will be your downfall."   
  


And as they are led away - binders clasped around hands, walked between multiple, armed guards, descending towards what Ezra assumes is the capital city (and it’s high-security dungeon) - he cannot help but wonder if, this time, he has wandered a little _too_ far away from home, and has placed his growing trust in the _wrong_ person.

* * *

_Hera Syndulla is cold._ _She is always cold, these days._

_T_ _he perpetual, bone-deep, sub-zero ache of the wind upon Hoth is enough to make her regret moving here. But after all that she’s lost to the war, what other place in the galaxy is there, other than the empty, ice halls of Echo Base? After being left alone with only the ghosts of her once-close family and crew members, what other connections does she still have?_

_Inside of her womb, the unborn child squirms._

_Zeb and Kallus had tried. They really had. When they’d made the decision to escort the new Lasat refugees to the star cluster of Lira San, they’d asked her to join them and as a part of their new mission and family. But Hera, however, could not make herself leave the place where she and her lover had started out together. She cannot make herself walk away from the world where his spectre remains, haunting her every waking and dreaming moments with warm memories of their time together._

_Kanan's child kicks out, restless. She places a hand upon her rounded stomach._

_“Just a few more weeks, little one,” she tells him, voice soft and spoken aloud even though Jacen cannot yet see the walls that surround them. “I know that you think that you’re ready, but it’s not quite time yet. Give me a few more weeks. We’ll get through this together.” She strokes her slim, green fingers over the swell. “We’ll get through this. We have to.”_

_She knows this. Because she knows what she can, and cannot, survive._

_She’d survived the loss of her planet, childhood and mother to the cruelty of the Empire. She’d watched the young Mandalorian woman that she’d come to know as a daughter grow up and leave to serve her people. Recently, she’d watched Garazeb recover enough to make a new life and find a new love. And, on that day that she’d never forget - the day when Kanan had been taken, consumed by fire - she’d lost her own partner before her eyes._

_And she cannot survive losing another son._

_"Ezra Bridger," Hera sighs, gazing into the pale, snow-fogged sky swirling above them. "Where **are** you?" _

_It has been months...no. Now it has been years since the young, human man had disappeared from their presence. Just like his Jedi master, the teenage padawan had only given her the briefest moments of warning before he'd vanished from her life forever. But instead of seeing him burned away, body and soul, she'd seen something perhaps even more unsettling: his form slipping away, drawn into a world between worlds. With the flashing of hyper-space lights from the many-limbed purrgils, she'd seen him vanished - along with Grand Admiral Thrawn - into the space of a galactic void._ _And nobody has heard or seen of him since._

_"Bring him home," she whispers, to nowhere and nobody in particular. "Please. Let the Force be with him...and bring him **home."**_

* * *

It takes a while for his eyes to begin to adjust to the light. Or, rather, the _absence_ of it. 

_I wonder if Kanan ever felt like this,_ Ezra Bridger wonders, blinking around in the low dark. He reaches out with the Force to take in the finer details of the textured, stone walls and shield-reinforced doors of their cell. _It was probably easier, given his connection to the Force._ Thinking of his Jedi master pulls the familiar twinge of loss inside of his chest, but it feels somewhat muted in this strange place of quiet darkness. _It was probably harder, too. Given the fact that he had no eyesight at all._

His eyes had been clear for their descent to the prison, however, and Ezra had been grateful. 

Csaplar is, in a word, _beautiful._

He shouldn’t have been so surprised, given the swirling, unique architecture of the _Ice Lyte_ on the capitol’s surface. But he hadn’t been prepared for the breathtaking craftwork of the underground stones; the carved, gleaming granites and marble that compose each one of its buildings and structures. Every bench, street and statue is adorned with pristine, multicolored rockworks, and Ezra had stared open-mouthed as they’d passed by walls encrusted with veins of glittering crystal. Fossils and ancient bones were embedded into the duracrete pathways beneath his feet, and floating lanterns - suspended by some kind of physics he does not understand - cast the city in scarlet, plum, and golden-hued glows. 

If they hadn't been hauled away with the intention of being _jailed,_ Ezra would have even enjoyed it. 

Presently, he is sitting across from his Chiss counterpoint in silence. Thrawn has bowed his head to rest in his steepled fingers, and hasn’t spoken a single word since they’d arrived in the city gates. Ezra senses a torrent of emotions churning through him: relief _,_ at being somewhere that he recognizes; pleasure _,_ at allowing his native Chenuh to run over his tongue; disappointment, that the man named Samakro had reacted to him so unfavorably; anger, and what the other man had said by calling him that different, strange name; and _yearning._ Yearning for someone that is both very near, and yet, out of reach. 

“You, uh, you okay there, buddy?” Ezra asks. Hesitantly, he reaches and pats Thrawn’s shoulder. “Not exactly how you expected all of this to go down, huh?” 

Thrawn’s chest rises and falls. He turns his glowing eyes on him, and they seem far more luminescent and red in the low dark. Ezra studies the other man’s face, listening to his feelings through the Force just as much as straining to hear his words. He watches tension pinch around the corner of the older man’s mouth, a swallow pull through his dry, silent throat. 

“...No,” he replies at length, voice muted as the shadows around them. “I had expected…” 

He trails off, brooding again, and Ezra nods and shrugs his shoulders. He’s _trying_ not to act like he’d known all of this would beforehand: after all, he and Thrawn had talked through the possibilities on the ship earlier, and it has been unlikely that there would be a warm welcome. But it seems that for all the man is skilled with the strategic moves and countermoves that balance out the art of war, Thrawn is far less skilled in the interpersonal and social skills that could attribute to the world of politics. 

“Well, don’t give up hope,” he says cheerfully, the irony of this moment not passing by without notice. 

“Things will get better. They always do. After all, we’re waiting on Auntie.” He watches Thrawn frown, and nudges him with the crook of his elbow. “You said she’s your friend, after all. If you can convince the current admiral to hear you out, then we should be just fine.” 

“ _Grand_ Admiral.” Ezra and Thrawn look up in surprise, startled to see another figure. “She’s serving as our Grand Admiral, now.” 

The Chiss woman standing outside the prison bars is shorter and stockier than the soldiers he’d seen earlier. Nonetheless, Ezra can tell that she too is a part of the Chiss Expansionary Defence Force: muscle-bound, straight poster, a presence of confidence and command. If he didn’t know any better, he would expect to encounter the short-haired woman standing on the bridge of a Star Destroyer sooner than he would see her leaning against the bars of a prison cell. She just has that kind of... _fearlessness_ in her presence. 

“Senior Captain Wutroo!” his companion exclaims. 

(Or, he would have; if he ever startled. To anyone else, Thrawn probably sounded bored. But to Ezra Bridger, who now knows his traveling companion in all of his strange, muted nuances, he can hear the surprise and even welcome excitement in his voice.) 

“Ezra Bridger," Thrawn says, turning to him, "this is Senior Captain Kiwu’tro’owmis. We served together on the _Springhawk_ in my youth.”

The tension that his Chiss companion had carried when walking alongside Samakro has melted away at the woman’s welcoming words. Indeed, she is flashing a cheeky grin at Thrawn in return; and Ezra realizes that he hasn’t seen any Chiss show such outright signs of facial expression since he’d arrived here. _A friend? Hopefully, dear Force, a real friend!_

“Greetings, Mitth’raw’nuroudo,” the pixie-cut woman says brightly. Ezra notes that she uses his proper name, causing a soothing ripple to flow through the Force. “I hope that our former Mid-Captain did not give you too rough of a time?”

The rounded cheeks of her heart-shaped face falls slightly as she observes the answering silence of the Chiss man sitting next to him. “Oh, he _did_ rough you up, huh?” With several quick motions, she types in a code locking up the cell’s door. “Well, you can’t blame him too much. He’s been _dying_ to pull one over on you since the days when you took over his old position.” 

To Ezra’s delighted surprise, the protective shield fizzles out. She steps back, opening the doors up. 

“Come on,” Wutroo says, “I’m supposed to bring you to the Grand Admiral and her General.” Ezra finds himself jumping eagerly into standing, but Thrawn is still blinking slowly at her. She taps a foot, gesturing for him to rise. “Just like you asked?” she prompts, encouraging him. 

Through the Force, Ezra becomes quickly aware that Thrawn is now actually... _nervous._

“How very fortunate,” he murmurs, slowly rising and brushing (non-existent) dirt from his trousers. “First, Mid-Captain Samakro; now, our new Grand Admiral Ar’alani. It seems as though everyone is rising up through the ranks in my absence.” Although his voice is perfectly polite and neutral, Ezra senses that he is _fishing_ for something. Some other, left-out detail that he wants to know. “I suppose that congratulations are also in order to you as well, General?” 

Wutroo smirks, and the look is playfully disrespectful. 

“Do you _really_ think that I’d be down here, brushing shoulders with some of our dirtiest criminals, if I was serving dear ‘Lani as our newest _General_?” she shakes her head wryly, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Oh, no, no, Thrawn. Like usual, you’re two steps behind it all. Samakro was shifted to Footsoldier-Captain after our recent loss to the Grysk.”

Something about this statement impacts Thrawn, who Ezra sees _flinch_. 

“After the destruction of the _Springhawk_ and its sister the _Nightingale,_ many positions had to be transformed or reassigned. I too was shifted to a different department...although, whether or not Samakro or I got the better end of the deal, you’ll have to decide.” Ezra gets the impression that she is making light of a difficult subject. She places one hand on her hip, waving for them to step out of the cell with the other. “I’m now serving as the Grand Admiral’s personal aid and guard,” she finishes. 

Thrawn does not attempt to hide his concern.

“Wutroo…” he says, extending one hand. Then, awkwardly, he retracts it. “It appears that I have spoken too soon. You have my sincerest condolences; both for the loss of your crew, and for the loss of the _Springhawk._ It was a magnificent ship, and I know that you cared for it well. I must also apologize for my...lack of awareness to your plight. I admit that, until this very moment, I was unaware that such events had occurred.”

His eyes pulse brightly with a regretful emotion, and Wutroo’s cheery expression wilts slightly. 

“You’ve been busy, sir,” she replies simply. There is no accusation. And then, realizing, she _smirks_ \- perhaps amused at her falling back into the familiar honorific when Thrawn clearly has no lasting seniority. “But unlike our old pal Captain Samakro, I won’t hold that against ya.” 

She winks, catching Ezra off-guard. 

Paired with her friendly tone and her casual cadence of speaking, the young Jedi is beginning to suddenly realize that Thrawn’s elegant, sometimes odd manner of speaking might just be unique among his own people, too. _If so,_ he thinks to himself, _what other assumptions have I made about the Chiss people that are totally wrong? Based only on my lack of evidence, and my universally-weird, almost-sort-of-friend?_

Thrawn bows his head in acknowledgment. Then, following her gesture, he steps from the cell. 

“But then,” he asks, falling into a polite half-step behind their guide, “what of your new role?” Ezra walks behind the pair of them, grinning at the height difference between the tall, lean form of the former grand admiral and the shorter, shapely physic of the muscled Chiss guard. “Tell me, have you found the position of _aide de camp_ to be as enlightening as you’d once supposed?” 

The trio of them ascend up the dimly-lit tunnel, arriving into the vastness of the security building above. 

“Oh, it couldn’t be _nearly_ as much fun as you had with Vanto,” Wutroo quips. “But I’m enjoying it, yes.” 

A pulse of emotion ripples through the Force hovering around Thrawn, and Ezra’s attention sharpens around the name. _Vanto. Eli Vanto?_ Thrawn’s presence feels tense: like the strings of a violin wound _far_ too tight, shivering against the slightest brush of tension. _Right. Thrawn doesn’t like to talk about his former aid._ He remembers - and quite vividly, too - the way that Thrawn had arched his head back and open-mouth _hissed_ at him when he’d pushed the man on the subject. It was hard to forget the flash of canine-sharp fangs, and the vicious look on the other man’s face...but it was _also_ hard to not remember the way Thrawn had begged his name while he was injured. 

_“Eli...don’t leave me...please…”_

Thrawn says something under his breath, and it makes Wutroo laugh.

With less kriffs than anyone in the Empire, she swings a hand and punches the former grand admiral in the arm. “And I don’t believe a _word_ of it, Thrawn. You talk too much, sir. Anyone made a point of telling you that?” Her amusement is infectious, making Ezra smile broadly while the other man squirms in awkward discomfort. 

Ezra tears his eyes from the sight of the two old colleagues and gazes around the strange, wonderful building. Standing or walking between the stone desks, several armor-clad Chiss are busy at work. One of them, her skin only the faintest of blue-lavender, is stacking books of _actual flimsy_ upon a towering shelf behind the main desk. Another, with long, blue-black hair braided down to their ankles, types dutifully at a multi-screened data pad--er, or as Thrawn had called it, _questis._ When Ezra recognizes one of the soldiers who’d brought them in with Captain Samakro, he can’t resist the temptation, and raises one hand in a jaunty wave.

Their brisk walk through the capitol city to the waiting cap is _equally_ grand. 

This time, knowing that things are _literally_ on the way up, Ezra allows himself to enjoy it. He grins at staring, blue-skinned people as he strolls down the street following the warriors. Ezra is glad that they’d shed their wampa-fur parkas back at the cell: because, surprisingly, the air around them is pleasant and _warm._ It suits the warm colors thrown by the hovering lamps, the quiet murmur of voices and music. He isn’t sure how far they are underground, but the pressure doesn’t make him feel claustrophobic. In fact, it is quite the opposite; with the sky-high ceilings towering hundreds of feet up above, illuminating the expanse of the shadowed cavern with their glittering stones and twinkling lamps. Complete with the blinking, luminous eyes of the Chiss in the dark, it’s like being suspended at all hours of the day in the warm, glowing light just before evening. 

The only thing that he finds himself missing is the clear, open sky _._

“Please,” Wutroo says, gesturing to a speeder-type, monorail-ready vehicle. It hums quietly where it hovers just above the paved ground, waiting for them to enter so that it can rejoin the above tracks. “We’ll take one of these through the rest of the capital. It will be a good way for you to gather your surroundings,” she smiles at Ezra, “and it will get us there faster than your slow, stumbling feet.” She smirks at Thrawn. “We don’t want to keep our leadership waiting." Ezra finds that he quite _likes_ this new Vice-Admiral. 

When he eases himself into the back seat of the cab, eyes filled with the sights, smells and sounds of the city, he almost doesn't hear Thrawn when the Chiss asks: “... _So_. If not you, nor Samakro, then who _is_ the new general?”

His voice is tense, and quiet. His feelings pool dangerously close to the edge, almost exposing the rawness of fear and excitement beneath. Ezra pretends not to listen, leaning back to admire the buildings around them. Wutroo slides into the driver's side. She gazes forward, not even looking at Thrawn. Her red-rimmed eyes seem to sparkle with mischief as she flicks over several kinds of break and steering panels, bringing the vehicle to life.

“Hmm. Funny thing that you should ask...”

But before he can inquire further, she kicks a spiked boot down on the ignition. “Hold onto your trousers, boys! You’re going to want them where we are going.” Ezra Bridger finds himself whooping and laughing, clutching to the sides of the strange hover-cab, as they spiral upwards and into Csaplar's cavernous expanse. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--- Translations from Cheunh to Basic --- 
> 
> 1\. Hail. I greet you in honesty [with honest intentions]. 
> 
> 2\. State the name that belongs to you [your family]. State at once the blood of your house [your family bloodline]! 
> 
> 3\. My name is Mitth'raw'nuruodo. I seek an audience with my admiral, Ar'alani.
> 
> 4\. You again?! That [cannot be] correct. Ar'Alani is my admiral, and she said nothing of an Imperial traitor [returning to] our midst." 
> 
> 5\. Senior [Captain] Sam'ak'ro.
> 
> 6\. Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Or should I say...Rawnu.
> 
> Words: Guest, Family, Force-Sensitive, Prisoner, Invitation


	7. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra and Thrawn meet with Chiss military high command. Ezra hatches a last-minute plan.

* * *

**SEVEN | EZRA**

* * *

When he finally sees them together, the truth of it makes Ezra Bridger feel rather stupid _._

_Thrawn's in love,_ he thinks to himself. 

As he watches Thrawn’s entire presence shift wholly and only towards the other human man in the room, Ezra wonders how he--no, how _anyone_ , in the entire _galaxy--_ could have missed these most obvious signs. It’s written all over the former grand admiral’s face: in the way that his hard, red-rimmed eyes have become soft, liquid and shining; in the lurching, unsteady leap of his gaze as it flickers between staring and in shy avoidance; in the way that his severe cheekbones are dusted now a shadow of the deepest purple. 

_He's in love. With his former aid, Eli Vanto._

Because the alien man sitting next to him at the smooth, black-topped table is nothing like his usual self _._ There is a kind of folding, an unsettled ripple in the Force, that radiates all about him: an ever-twitching, ever-searching feeling of interest that pushes and scratches just under the surface. It gnaws at Thrawn, pushing against his insides and under his skin, making his already-busy mind churn into speeds that almost make Ezra’s fingertips hurt. 

If the whole thing wasn’t so surreal, he would have found the strange, unexpected, yet obvious situation that they are in to be _laughable._

However, it’s not very funny; because Ezra is certain that they are about to be questioned within an inch of their lives. Right now, he is seated with his former nemesis before total strangers, in a freezing-cold land where he hardly knows the language, and where he’d never even set foot before this very moment. Worst of all, it’s very likely going to be down to him to do all the quick thinking, as Thrawn appears to be utterly, totally _useless_ in his present lovestruck rapture. 

_Oh,_ Ezra thinks. _This is gonna be good._

Apprehension and mirth twisting in his stomach, he reaches forward and grasps his tea mug. The warmth and texture of the rock-hewn cup feels good in his hands, and when he inhales the fumes of its red-brown surface, the smell of chestnuts and spice swirls in his nostrils. Tentatively, Ezra takes a sip--and he uses the moment to sneak a sideways glance at Thrawn through the steam. 

_Yeah, we’re gonna die. He’s totally fucked._

The former grand admiral is seated slightly off-kilter in his own chair. He’d gone silent since they’d entered the jewel-encrusted war room, and the once-haughty Chiss man now appears to be fully out of coherent words. It reminds Ezra a bit of when he’d seen the other man hit on the head several times: flustered, surprised, with his brilliant eyes fuzzy and his slicked-back hair tousled in several directions. 

_Well. If we are gonna die, then at least I’ll have fun doing it._

He inches a foot under the desk, meaning to kick meaningfully at the other man’s boot and make raucous eyebrows at him. Thrawn, however, does not seem to be paying any attention to his young travelling companion in the slightest: all of his focus is narrowed down to one person. 

The one and only _General_ Eli Vanto. 

Ezra has to hand it to him: the man _is_ pretty. Dark-eyed, handsome-featured, he appears to be younger than Thrawn, and yet older than Ezra ( _perhaps, he is in his thirties, like Zeb and Kallus?)._ He looks good in the Chiss’ gleaming white of command, and his shaggy, brown hair falls in carless locks, softening his features. Vanto’s eyes are friendly and inviting, and crinkle into laugh-lines around the edges as he talks ( _in a Wild-Space accent, of all things: “Would ya look at what the Loth-cat dragged in!” he’d proclaimed)._ But it’s not just the handsome face and the charming smile: Vanto is... _kind._ There is just something about him that is approachable and compassionate, that makes Ezra think that he’d be more likely to encounter the man helping people down at the docks then walking around and barking out orders. 

But if Vanto is casual, then his superior is anything but. Grand Admiral Ar’alani is... _immaculate._

Intimidating, tall and striking in beauty, the Chiss woman is everything that Ezra could have imagined for a Grand Admiral. She is stoic and cold to Vanto’s warmth and friendliness, but that only adds to her professional power. Ar’alani is all sharpness and smooth, clean-cut edges: crisp, direct speaking; clear, intelligent thinking; brief, thoughtful comments. Not only is she like this in personality, but she also seems to be such in appearance: a long waterfall of blue-black, smoothed hair; thin, unreadable, elegant features; the smooth, evening-dusk blue of her skin. 

And if _she_ is stunning, it’s _nothing_ compared to hearing her voice. 

_(“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” she’d greeted them, alto tone just as rich and melodic in Basic as in Chenuh, “What an unexpected surprise. Please. Won’t you and your companion sit down? You can join us for a cup of tea...and fill in the spaces that have been left wanting.”)_

Now, sitting under the weight of her gaze, Ezra knows instinctively that she is _not_ to be tested. 

The third, waiting Chiss figure grunts with impatience. “This is a waste of our time,” Samakro huffs. “We already _know_ that Raw is a traitor. Why not just toss him before the Aristocra tonight and just be done with it?”

Ezra recognizes the dark-skinned, spiky-haired, frowning Chiss from their encounter before. Samakro looks more composed then when they’d first arrived on the snow-crusted planet, and yet he still appears to be in a sour mood. _Maybe he’s always grumpy?_ Ezra wonders. _Maybe he’s got a bone to pick with Thrawn?_ As the sharp-eyed, glaring foot-soldier stands over the table with his arms crossed, Ezra begins to wonder about what _exactly_ Thrawn had done to piss him off. It must have been awful bad, to leave such a taste remaining in the captain’s mouth. 

Er, what _Raw_ had done. _Rawnu? New Rodeo?_

Ezra isn’t sure. And at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. 

“Captain Samakro, you reveal your impatience.” Grand Admiral Ar’alani levels her officer with an icy seriousness. “We have no evidence whatsoever that Mitth’raw’nuruodo has deviated from the original plan. It might very well be that all things are on course.” She raises an earthenware cup from the table, holding it to her blue-black lips and giving the surface a swirling blow. “Although his arrival here on Csilla is unexpected by our timetables, it is not implausible that he is yet fulfilling his duty to high command.” 

Ar’alani pauses to take a sip. 

“You _do_ have a report prepared for us on the Sith Empire, do you not, Thrawn?” 

Whatever Ezra had been expecting to hear, it wasn’t _that._ He nearly fumbles the tea in his hands as he looks around the room, exploring the range of emotions on the Chiss’ faces: cheerful Wutroo; pleasant, unreadable Vanto; serious, ill-tempered and impatient Samakro. 

_What is this?_ He wonders, looking at Thrawn with open suspicion. _I’m supposed to believe that you’ve been serving as some kind of_ **_spy_ ** _? Working all this time_ **_against_ ** _the Empire?_

Thrawn, however, seems perfectly content with this explanation. Gathering an inhale of breath, he responds: “Indeed.” When Ar’alani gives him a nod of permission, he continues. “I thank you, Grand Admiral, for your continued investment of faith in me. And I thank you for the honor of your audience with us this evening. I have indeed gathered much intel regarding the Sith Lord and his threatening Empire, and, in due time, I would be gratified to present this information to the Aristocra.”

Ezra goggles at him. 

For all of Thrawn’s embarrassed, love-struck composure, his voice is only the slightest bit breathy. _Good actor,_ he thinks. _Or, just bad at feelings._ He opens his mouth to add something to the dialogue, but Thrawn shoots a quick glance at him. Once again, it’s one of those burning, blazing-cold looks of warning _(“Shut up! If you know what’s good for you!”)_ and he decides that he’d best wait this particular meeting out in silence. 

_Maybe we’re not gonna die here today after all. Interesting._

“Let us dispense with the pleasantries,” Ar’alani replies shortly. “Are you, or are you not, here on the business of the Ascendency? If so, we may assume that you have returned to us with a solution for how we might approach and outwit the Empire.” She leans forward, long fingers steepling in a gesture that Ezra recognizes. “If _not,_ and your untimely arrival is by mere accident, we will have cause to put you on formal trial. Your return from exile, as I am sure you recall, is contingent upon loyalty to the Aristocra.” 

Steaming heat swirls upward from her cup, and her scarlet eyes glitter through the silver haze. 

“If you have come to insult the ruling families again, you have made a grave error.” 

Ezra has _so many_ questions. He wants to ask Thrawn about his history with his people; and how this whole ‘Ascendency’ and ‘Aristocra’ works, because he’s clearly underestimated the family bonds. He wants to ask him about his exile, and about the conditions leading up to it that warned Samakro’s words of ‘betrayal’ and ‘traitor.’ Of course, he’s burning to know what sort of ‘insult’ Thrawn had brought to the ruling families, and what it would look like for him to be ‘put on formal trial.’ 

( _However,_ it’s probably _best_ that he doesn’t push on that last one right now: it might have a lasting impact on his survival). 

Thrawn is quiet for a long moment. When he glances up, his first gaze is at General Vanto; who, Ezra notices, is steadily looking _away_ from Thrawn. _Could it be that this whole thing is one-sided?_ He suddenly wonders, feeling a flicker of pain for the man who is almost his friend. _Is it just something that I’m feeling through the Force, and this Eli guy actually has no idea?_ If _that_ is the case, then he feels almost sorry for wanting to taunt Thrawn before. 

His second gaze, however, is not at his general or his fellow Chiss: but at _Ezra._

When the other man looks at him, he feels a different set of thoughts and emotions flooding through him. These ones are more tangled: the feelings of loneliness, tinged with desperation. The feeling of being apart, and wanting to be brought back together. The feeling of being a wandering nomad among the stars, and finally, _finally_ having a chance to be back in the place which feels like home. All of this, fighting with the sense of loyalty and duty that Thrawn has tangled inside of himself about... _lying_...to his Grand Admiral. 

As the Force touches his shoulder, Ezra suddenly knows his role. 

“Yes,” he says, speaking for the first time since entering the room, and allowing his voice to ring with confidence. “You’ve got it right, Grand Admiral. Thrawn-- _er--_ ” he pauses, looks at her questioningly, and she nods, ”--Yeah, _Thrawn_ used to be an unholy terror. He’d go out of his way to make rebels like me fight to survive.” He glances at the other man, who is watching him with an intensity sharp enough to shatter. “ _But_ he’s always been loyal to your people. And anybody who is against the Empire is definitely a friend of mine. It took him a while to convince me at first, but once I finally understood, I helped him escape from Lothal.” 

He’s making it all up on the spot, of course; but now, the story flows out from him like the purest, most natural water. 

“It was a little bit trickier than we’d imagined, using the purrgil. It took us first to Aurora, then Jakuu. But it gave us lots of time to work on our plans, and lots of time for us to talk about ways that the Rebels can help the Chiss people defeat the Empire.” He smiles, giving Thrawn an encouraging look. _You’re acting. I’m acting. Take the hint: let’s work together._ “We’re going to make an alliance. My crew--Phoenix Squadron-- was one of the first.” 

There is a long silence after his talking. 

Ezra lifts his mug, draining the last bit of tea from its contents. He isn’t sure if this is utter foolishness or bravery; but regardless, he can tell that the Force is driving him - and he just _better hold on for the ride._ He’d made all that up, about joining forces with the other man; _karabast,_ he’d called Thrawn a _friend,_ when the man had tried to kill himself and his family before. But there is something deep and powerful moving within him, telling him that this is the right decision. That somehow - in some way - that all the pieces are weaving together, forging a whole new kind of alliance. One that he’d never expected, but now, for which he feels grateful. 

The first person to stir is Eli Vanto.

The white-clad EDF general’s hair has fallen into his face, and it obscures the look pinching his mouth and filling his eyes. Nevertheless, Ezra can still hear the richness and complexity of his emotion as he speaks one low, careful, hesitant word: 

“... _Thrawn?”_

There is a rush of tangled emotions, and Ezra is nearly light-headed from the impact the name has upon the man next to him. However, he has no time to explore it further; because all of the others seem to have processed at once, and are now chiming in at the same time. “This is _great!”_ Wutroo says, punching a fist in the air. “Countless allies and _zero_ trials? It doesn’t get any better than that!” Samakro, brooding and chewing on his lower lip, grumbles: _“_ Don’t like it. Don’t _trust_ him. Who _is_ this kid, anyways?” From her desk, Ar’alani is gazing at Thrawn. She is also murmuring something to her data pad, apparently making voice-to-text notes, and sighs with tempered satisfaction: “perhaps.” 

Still feeling the mixture of pleasure and pain stirring in his friend, Ezra leans forward. 

“Hi. I should have introduced myself earlier when you first let us in.” He extends his hand, creating an opening to forge a relationship with the Chiss all his own. “My name’s Ezra Bridger. I’m a Jedi, I grew up on Lothal, and I’m a Lieutenant Commander under General Hera Syndulla in the rebellion against the Empire.” 

When the smooth, cool skin of the Chiss Grand Admiral’s hand wraps around his, Ezra feels a rush of intention and purpose. It swirls around him, illuminating the various figures. 

“I’m honored to be here. And I can tell that this is the start of a good and enduring alliance.”

* * *

_Beneath the star-freckled sky of Lira San, a former Imperial wipes at his brow._

_He’d set out to gather more armfuls of kindling just over an hour ago, and it’s been challenging labor with his twisted, bum leg. However, he knows that it is absolutely worth it: now that his arms are bursting with fallen twigs and curling bark, he knows that their bonfire will have enough fuel to go for hours. It’s become part of their unspoken ritual, and something that he looks forward to every night: after dinner, gathering around the crackling flames, listening to and sharing stories about Old Lasan. He’s come to cherish these times, and to learn more about the Lasat people -_ **_his_ ** _people - than he’d ever dreamed possible._

_“If ya wanted for us to get some time alone,” says a warm, rumbling voice, “all that ya had to do was ask.”_

_Kallus smiles._

_He turns, watching the man that he’s come to love stride across the open field towards him._

_Never in one of his countless years as an Imp would he have imagined settling down with an alien lover. And yet, Garazeb Orrelios is the most extraordinary being - everything that he’s ever wanted, and more. The former Honor Guard captain has a rough-and-tumble exterior, but Kallus knows by now that it’s only for show. He’s come to know that Zeb is kind-hearted, forgiving, and recklessly generous; that he’s clever, strong-willed, and, of course, honorable. Zeb has devoted his life to saving those lost to the Empire - and these days, Kallus shamelessly knows that also includes him. (And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s terribly handsome.)_

_“Zeb,” he greets the other, leaning into the intimate brush of their beards. “You left the others?”_

_The tall, striped Lasat smiles down at him._

_“Ah, they’re gettin’ on without me just fine,” Zeb replies lightly._

_He throws a velvet-furred arm around Kallus’ shoulders, pulling him close into his warm side, and he finds himself sighing into the soft, familiar heat of the other. Zeb’s coat might not be as striking and purple as when they’d first met, but he is still every bit the man that he’s come to know and love. Their years of aging together has only made his pelt more soft; and their hearts, even softer._

_“I was more worried about you fallin’ into some pit ,and havin’ to wait for me until mornin’ to come get ya.”_

_Kallus snorts, elbowing his former nemesis playfully in the fuzzy ribs._

_“Garazeb Orrelios,” he replies, dropping the bundle of wood in favor of wrapping his arms around the other man. “I’m not afraid of falling anymore. I would have thought you’d realized it by now: while my original goal was not_ _to fall, it’s already happened.” He smiles up at him, thinking of how they’d clung together for life on that ice moon several years ago. “And, of course: you were there to catch me.”_

_Zeb grins, one fang popping out at him from his purple-hued lip._

_“Well, that was nothin’ special. Besides, what do ya think best friends are for?”_

_When their lips brush together, Kallus sighs into the kiss.It’s just as good as their very first time, standing behind that broken reactor, embracing just after Gregor had died. Neither one of them had been expecting it to happen that way; but there had been a war going on, and blood-pressure was high, and there’s just nothing like a brush with mortality to make one begin to rethink one’s life choices._

_“Zeb,” Kallus murmurs, pressing his head into his chest. “Thank you for coming to find me. Again.”_

_There is a rumbling beneath the Lasat’s powerful chest. It is soothing all the way down to his bones. “For you, I’ll always return,” Zeb replies. “No matter the time, or the distance.”_

_The former-agent Kallus feels the swaying of Lira San’s grass, the starlight shining brightly above, the warmth of his lover’s embrace around him. As the beautiful, quiet darkness descends around them, he knows that he’ll place his trust in them until the very end. He will do everything, anything, to protect this new, fragile life they have forged together. It’s worth changing minds, crossing over enemy lines, fighting a war, going under-cover._ _Worth being transformed._

_Worth losing and finding yourself all over again._

* * *

Samakro pushes open the tall, stone-encrusted doors with an unceremonious shove. 

“Don’t break anything,” he instructs Ezra roughly. He pushes past him into the darkness, placing a hand on the nearby lighting panel. “And don’t do anything stupid, like wandering outside of here by yourself. Especially before we’ve assigned you a set of guards.” The many rooms of their temporary residence illuminate, and Ezra finds himself taking in an appreciative gasp. “ _Especially_ while there are people who still want to cause you both harm.” 

“Other than _you_?” Ezra replies. 

It’s snotty, but he doesn’t really mean it. He finds that it’s truly difficult to be irritated - even at salty Samakro - when Ar’alani has housed them in a veritable _palace._ After some brief negotiations, she’d departed with her aid (and General Vanto) to work on the details of their presentation. She’d also sent them away the sour captain as guard, with the instructions to take them to one of the smaller loding places of visiting, off-planet Aristocra when they came to dwell for a seasonal visit on Csilla. 

And if _this_ was one of the more modest dwellings?! Ezra doesn’t even want to _think_ about what the ruling families have at store! Because the high, marbled walls are covered in decadent paintings and sparkling silks; the tall, dome-shaped ceilings are glowing with more of those soft, warm-colored lanterns. Everything is hushed in that perpetually soft, cozy glow, and is illuminated by more of what appear to be salt-lamps or meteorites. Adding to the effect are many silken chairs and chaise-lounges, scattered about in luxurious comfort, all leading towards an expansive kitchen ( _and a gleaming table of cheese, bread, and fruits)._

And when Ezra steps down from the entryway, he finds that he’s stepping into soft, silken _sand._ Drawing off his thick boots, he relishes in the seemingly sun-soaked heat of the soft granules and groans. It reminds him of his desert homeland, back on Lothal. 

“I take it back,” Samakro drawls. “There is no danger in you exploring the city. In fact, I recommend that you head out before anyone else comes to visit.” Ezra turns to look over his shoulder, and he finds the Chiss sneering at him nastily. _Ah. Sarcasm._ “A charming young man like you shouldn’t have any problems.” 

Ezra sighs, tossing his boots to the side and flopping down onto the sandy floor. 

“What’s eatin’ ya, Sam?” he asks, resisting the temptation to arch his back and stretch like a Loth-cat. “You got some kind of grudge against our buddy Thrawn?” 

He raises an eyebrow, watching the Chiss soldier’s face grow tense with surprise, then fold into an even more severe frown than before. Samakro opens his mouth, perhaps to answer or perhaps to scold him, but then Thrawn enters from the doorway. 

“The summer cabin of the Mitth family line?” he says, looking surprised and delighted. “Ar’alani is truly generous to let us reside here for the present time.” With uncharacteristic cheer, he drops down into the warm sand next to Ezra. “Pleasant, is it not?”

“Oh, _great,”_ Samakro huffs from the door. “Now I have _two_ agents of chaos to manage.” 

Ezra grins, raising both hands in a shrugging gesture and letting sand slide through his fingers. Maybe Samakro is right; now that he’s proclaimed himself and Thrawn to be _friends,_ he’s not going to bother pulling any of his punches. From now on - both as his roommate and his ill-fated co-conspirator - ol’ New Rodeo is going to get bothered with every _inch_ of the ribbing, questions, and relentless nonsense that his siblings Sabine and Zeb had been subjected to over _years._ And the very best part? Thrawn cannot _tell_ anyone: he’ll have to learn how to put up with Ezra, to make this whole charade go along. Maybe even learn how to genuinely like him. 

He grins, flopping back in the sand. 

“Heed my warning,” Samakro orders sternly. “I’ll return for the pair of you in the morning. I expect that we’ll have a meeting with the Grand Admiral over breakfast, and then, we’ll proceed onward to the Aristocra.” His eyes flicker to Thrawn, who is looking far more dishevelled than usual sitting in the sparkling, sky-colored sand. “And at least _try_ to look presentable?” he adds, sounding both tired and strained in that moment. “As you’re representing the Ascendency once again...” 

He sighs, cutting himself off. With an air of exhaustion, he turns and snaps the door shut behind him. 

From where he is resting, Ezra begins to snicker. 

_“Explain,”_ Thrawn demands, turning his blood-red gaze upon Ezra. But unlike before, there is no warning or heat in his words. Actually, if he had to try and put a finger on it, the young man would guess that Thrawn was actually feeling quite...comfortable? _Glad?_ Either way, it’s only good vibes rolling through him through the Force. 

_It’s a nice change of pace._

“Oh, _I’m_ not the one who has to explain!” he laughs, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. “Uncle: you’ve got some BIG stories that you’re gonna have to share with me!” Rising to his feet, allowing himself to laugh at Thrawn’s scandalized face, he extends one helping hand. “Oh, and don’t even _think_ that you pulled one over on me. Should I start with my list of questions? Or do you just wanna bite the bullet, and get started on _Mr. Eli Vanto?”_

Thrawn stumbles in his own getting up. Caught off-guard, his regal face flushes. “And what _about_ General Vanto?” he snaps, voice feigning a violence that he doesn’t have. 

_(Ezra knows this, now: after that meeting; after travelling with him for months, if not years, and getting to know him so well through the Force; he now knows far more about the man who had once been his enemy, and is now his friend, than he’d ever expected. And he knows that while Thrawn has adopted cruelty through the Empire, that it is not his true, faithful nature)._

“Maybe you could start with why the _hell_ you didn’t mention your _crush_ ,” he replies, placing hands on his hips. “This could’ve been a big issue, Thrawn. I didn’t know you were sleeping with the leadership!” 

If Thrawn’s blush had surprised him before, it is nothing compared to the look that the other man is giving him now. Stiff and irate, eyes narrowed into bloody slits, the man shifts from icy-blue in to soft, slate-grey purple. It’s _fascinating,_ and reminds Ezra of an awkwardly-camouflaged lizard. (But, obviously, that got the whole under-cover thing backwards). 

“There hasn’t been!!--- _how could you!!!--”_ Thrawn appears to be struggling for his composure. He growls, then straightens, smoothing his hair. “It’s nothing at all like that, Ezra Bridger.” 

Ezra snorts and rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “There’s nothing like that going on there. Just like Vanto is _only_ your colleague, Lani is _not_ your ex, and Samakro has _never_ wanted to be your best friend.” In the stunned silence that hangs between them, Ezra feels a ripple of anxiety through the Force - and, suddenly, he realizes that he’s perhaps come to understand Thrawn even more than he’d know. “ _Wait,”_ he says, trying to quickly go back over it all, “Does that mean that any of what I just said is actually...” 

Thrawn growls low in his chest, turning to stalk towards the assorted bedrooms.

“You, Ezra Bridger, are _very_ annoying.” He palms open a door, looking around inside. “And, as always, your intuition _exceeds_ your intelligence.” 

Apparently satisfied with their quarters, he walks back through the sand towards him. For a moment, Ezra thinks that perhaps Thrawn has arrived at the same point that he is: moving into brotherly blows, preparing to strike out at him for his impishness. However, before he can recoil from the too-familiar memory of being boxed around the ears by Zeb’s open paw or Sabine’s knuckled fist, he sees the Chiss man striding past him. He doesn’t even touch Ezra: he just makes his way towards the entrypoint. 

“Uh, what’re you doin’? I thought that Samakro said we shouldn’t go out?” he blinks with surprise as Thrawn opens the door. 

His former enemy glares down at him. But his frustration doesn’t appear to be with Ezra; no, it seems more to originate from a place within himself. It radiates out from the central core of the Chiss, nudging him restlessly towards words and action, driving him into behavior that others might deem reckless. Perhaps, that the man _himself_ might call reckless at another hour. 

“Do you always do what you’re told?” Thrawn replies, voice tauntingly silken. 

And then, without so much as a backward glance, he vanishes into the evening dark of the capitol city.

Ezra Bridger stares after him. Blinking with surprise, standing shin deep in powder-blue, radient sand, he feels conflict for only a moment. He _should_ go and pick out a room from among the Mitth summer home; he _ought_ to make himself acquainted with the various tapestries (as Thrawn had instructed) or practice Chenuh (at Ar'alani's command). But Captain Samakro had said it best: he was an agent of _chaos._ And a whole, new world is waiting outside of these stone doors. 

Grabbing his boots and grinning from ear to ear, Ezra follows his friend into the darkness. 

* * *


	8. Thrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn makes a rash decision, then hesitates. Eli Vanto is far less patient.

* * *

**EIGHT | THRAWN**

* * *

Though the streets of Csaplar are hushed, yet the clamour inside him is all the more deafening. _General,_ he breathes, thoughts being held captive. _He’s been made into a general of the EDF._ Thrawn's heart skips a beat as his mind stumbles over the unspoken name.It's been so long since he'd allowed himself to think it, to speak it. 

_Too long._

Thrawn’s feet move swiftly over the pavement, hardly leaving behind a sound as he quickly and quietly makes his way towards the city center dwellings. _It’s all turned out better than I had even hoped,_ he reflects rapidly. _Not only has he been accepted, but he has thrived: made a new name, a new life, for himself._ _As a general, he has once again proven his worth. And now, everyone in the entire Ascendency shall know of his worth. If they have not already perceived his exceptional value, they will soon understand that he is not only competent, but deftly capable; that he is not only integrous, but even more: trustworthy._

Feeling a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his present physical exertion, Thrawn pauses to rest one hand upon the moss-coated sturdiness of a garden wall. 

Once again, the intensity of his thoughts and feelings are threatening to overwhelm him. Simply being in the presence of the other man is enough to command and consume him. _I had thought that, given the distance..._ he swipes the long hair falling over his sweating brow. _I had thought that, perhaps, with the passing of time..._ But then the face of his companion--dark-eyed, smiling, poised with a radiant confidence and composure--flashes before him again. 

And it’s everything, _everything_ that he’d tried to negate. To account for. To _control_. 

It is that striking feeling of _weakness:_ as though he’d lost his prowess and mastery over his words. It’s the foreign feeling of being _vulnerable:_ of knowing that he would put himself in danger - willingly, _knowingly_ place his life on the line - to ensure the certainty of the other man’s safety. It is even that most dangerous feeling of utter _devotion:_ the truth that, without so much as a backward glance, Thrawn would leave everything and everyone behind him in order to stand beside the other man. 

_Eli Vanto:_ _You have found me again._

It wasn’t accurate, of course, to attribute such a reunion to that. Thrawn himself had arranged for his aid to escape from the grasp of the Empire, and had ensured him a place under then-Admiral Ar’alani’s tutelage. And it had been Thrawn’s idea to Ezra that they return to his home on Csilla, where they could recruit assistance to their cause and find some respite from the Loth-wolves that hunt them. But none of that really matters; because his heart _belongs_ to Eli. Now, for certain: and, perhaps, it always has. For in the same way that the ensign had once declared to him his allegiance - “ _my place is with you, to remain by your side” -_ he knows his own truth of it down to his bones. 

_And, if you shall have me: I will never again depart from your side._

Thrawn rightens himself and straightens his clothing, attempting to gather himself. It is absurd, of course: he should be focusing on the task of securing allies with young Ezra Bridger, who had so quickly and masterfully provided them with a cover story. He should be studying data-scrolls by his bedside, working late into the night to devise further schemes to develop their plan. This strange new adventure the Jedi had started might very well be the difference between his being court-marshalled and tried once again. Even more, it might be the difference for Bridger’s rag-tag group of resistance fighters failing; or, ultimately, their victory against the Empire. With Thrawn’s skillset, direction and assistance, he could help Bridger’s dream of collaboration to actually become some kind of functioning rebel alliance. 

_It would make him proud._

Thrawn feels his gut churn with tension. For such is the other absurdity of his thinking: that Eli Vanto could ever _want_ him again _(if, indeed, the other man ever had)._ Because Thrawn had resolved - in seeing the distance in the other man’s eyes; in watching how his shoulders had dropped, how his head had bowed, as he’d walked away from that fateful meeting on the _Chimera -_ that he had lost him. Eli Vanto had been slipping through his fingers for years beforehand, watching him give way to the cruelties of the Empire. His cold dismissal of _"Good Day, Lieutenant Vanto"_ had merely been the last nail in the coffin.

_It has always been fraught._ _Eli is young, full of life and compassion. I am too bitter. Too aged. Too cold._

And _yet_...

Thrawn’s heart clenches, thinking of how his former aid had softly and wistfully spoken his name. What he had heard in the other man’s voice today had been enough to suddenly re-ignite him. As it turns out, he _hadn’t_ forgotten how close that they had once come: how it felt for him to feel that raw tenderness fall from the other man’s lips, to show those threads of trust and concern. Even if it had all begun as Jedi's ploy for their pardon, Eli’s singular word had committed his resolve to pursuing this new course of action. Thrawn has made a new vow: until the very end, he shall do whatever it takes to construct and support this fragile alliance. For, in that flicker of emotion that he’d seen so breifly and powerfully within Eli, he’d felt something bloom inside of his chest. Something that he hadn’t known since before the Wookiees, or Batuu, or Atollon. 

_Hope._

In one large, heady gust, he releases his breath. When Thrawn breathes in again, deeply, he tastes the familiar, rich earthiness of the underground night. Carefully, doggedly, he begins forward once more: walking quickly and quietly through the darkness towards Eli. As he makes his way forward, he sees the lights of the warm lanterns dancing, hovering far above the city lights; he hears the quiet murmur of song, a lullaby of Chiss origin, while passing by an open window. The smoldering coal inside his heart _burns,_ making his chest twist and turn for each breath as he walks closer and closer. He licks his lips, moistening them in the coolness of the night air; he twitches his fingers, wriggling them as though preparing for imminent battle. 

_For war it might be. Who knows, what he will say when he finally sees me again? Who knows if he will..._ _If he wants..._

In spite of the chill, Thrawn forces himself forward. He has to _try._ He has to have _hope._ After all: if he is to be a rebel, one of Ezra Bridger's own making, then he must now begin to put into practice what General Hera Syndulla has always said all along. Thinking of her words makes him smile thinly in the dark, in spite of the fear that is tingling through him, the anxiousness that threatens to overwhelm him.

_Eli Vanto,_ he breathes, _I shall make myself worthy of you._

_In time - and may the warrior's fortune stay beside me -_ _I shall become the man that you once thought me to be._

* * *

_It's smaller than he'd anticipated, this dormitory. Then again, such could also be said for his exemplary roommate._

_Ensign Vanto plops down on the bunk across from him. “Yeah, so. It’s not much, but it’s home.”_ _The human yawns and stretches, then scratches at a spot underneath his arms and rib cage. When his brown eyes flutter closed, they are framed in the thickness of his dark, curling lashes. He grunts with sleepy effort as he begins to work at undoing the buttons of his stiff tunic, attempting to remove the Academy uniform without so much as a look._ _“I’ve had lotsa roommates before, but I don’t know about your history. If it makes a difference, I’m up for switchin’ bunks so you can have the top one?”_

_He gestures, waving at the cheap mattress bolted above._ _When Thrawn doesn’t respond, Vanto’s brown eyes flick open._

_“Uh. You_ **_do_ ** _use beds for sleepin’ in, don’t ya?” hA look of worry crosses his face, and then he frowns in concern. It’s a cute expression: wrinkling his nose, making his bright eyes squint together with thoughtfulness. “If not, I’m sure that we can make a hammock or somethin’ for ya.”_

_Thrawn raises one slim, skeptical eyebrow._ _Vanto laughs, and the sign of his face breaking into a smile makes him feel warmed all over._

_“Aw, krayt spit! I’m no good at bein’ an ambassador. Whoever thought that this whole arrangement would be a good idea was drinkin’ from the wrong side of the sill.” Vanto grins, rubbing a hand behind his shaggy-haired head in embarrassment. “Heh, sorry, Thrawn. Guess I shoulda asked you these kind of questions on our way over here.”_

_Surprised by his roommate’s concern, Thrawn shakes his head._

_“Please, Ensign, do not berate yourself on my behalf. In my opinion, you have already done far more than what is sufficient or expected of your role.” He laces his hands, staring at the human over his fingertips. “Indeed, you have no further obligation towards me, other than speaking some words of Basic when we occupy the same area, so that I might continue to polish my skills.”_

_He’s surprised again when Vanto snort-laughs. It's such a charming and unusually cheerful sound._

_“If anyone needs to polish skills here, Thrawn, it’s certainly not you,” he chuckles. “Honestly, iI think that it’s kinda insultin’ that they put you here in the first place. Why should you go back to the Academy again? You’re clearly already educated! And you’re way beyond that rank of Lieutenant.” He shrugs. “Obviously, someone’s got an agenda to fill. Otherwise, you’d already have your own ship.” He grins, directing that laughter at himself again. “Otherwise, you’d have somebody else doin’ this job.”_

_Thrawn frowns. He cannot comprehend why Ensign Vanto does not yet see his own striking value._

_“You are perfectly sufficient,” he replies, feeling his brow wrinkle in thought. “And yet, you do make a good point. While I do have my own deductions regarding the Emperor when it comes to motive, it would be quite useful for me to compose some theories about those who reside here at the school. It is very likely that someone here is a direct reporter to him, and that their reasons for sending me here are in line.” He nods, feeling solid about this new direction. “Thank you, Ensign Vanto. As usual, your insight is useful and illuminating.”_

_His roommate rolls his eyes. “Just wait until you meet a few other humans,” he says lightly. “Then you’ll finally understand what I mean, Thrawn.”_

_Looking down at his hands, Vanto seems to realize that he had been in the middle of unbuttoning his tunic and had left the task forgotten. He resumes it, now working the cloth open so that it falls around his tanned chest and shoulders; and_ _Thrawn, who had not been expecting this, steadies himself at the sudden appeal._

_There is, of course, the sheer softness of him: the tawny, flecked color of his flesh where it puckers sweetly around his middle. Then there is also the strangeness of him: the small, mammalian birthing hollow just above his navel, the scattered dust of fine, darkened hair; the peculiar addendum of masculine nipples. But none of these catch his attention so much as the **heat**. Without really thining too much about it, Thrawn finds himself staring with the most intrigue at the other man’s chest: where his inhale gently rises and falls, and where the radiant heat of his heart burns within. _

_Cadent Vanto coughs pointedly, making Thrawn startle._

_“Tell me about those,” his roommate says, reaching forward and lightly touching the temple near one of Thrawn’s eyes. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like ‘em before. I wanna know: are all the myths and legends I learned on Lysatra true? Can you actually see my skeleton through all of this?”_ _He gestures at his bare, exposed skin, grinning._

_With a flush of embarrassment, Thrawn realizes that the words are intended to kindly and casually steer their conversation in a different direction._

_One that does not make him ashamed for staring with such a lingering intensity at his roommate’s bare form, but instead, approaches something that is far safe for the pair of them to discuss. With a heady rush of relief, he once again feels a deepening trust and appreciation for the empathy of Ensign Eli Vanto._ _Truly, he is an exceptional person. How can he not know and recognize his innate value?_

_“It is uncommon for my people to share such information with outsiders,” he says carefully, watching Vanto’s face fall in disappointment. “However...I shall gladly make an exception for my new...friend.” He brightens, and Thrawn continues._

_“Chiss have a vision that humans frequently call ‘infa-red.’ Along with the standard visual points with which you are familiar, we as a species are able to visually receive wavelengths of a far more particular strength. What appears as invisible to the human eye is made known through heat-mapping in Chiss perception. These vibrations assist our kind with sensing and perception - particularly, in occasions of darkness or impaired vision.”_

_He is startled when Vanto leans forward, tugging back the side of his tunic._

_“No kidding! So you can see my heart-beat, then?” He reaches, taking Thrawn’s hand and pressing it to his left breast._ _“That’s a pretty valuable skill! Not just as a hunter - I’m sure that Chiss make for some dangerous predators already without 'em- but for medical reasons. I bet that if there was somethin’ wrong happenin’ here, you’d be able to sense it almost right away!”_ _He pats the blue hand resting over his heartbeat, sending Thrawn into a wash of emotion._

_Stunned into silence, he cannot speak._

_Thrawn is enraptured in feeling: a foreign, heady, heart-pounding sensation. He feels the smooth, softened radiance of Vanto's human texture. He feels the thrumming drumbeat of veins beneath his open palm. He feels the strong, steady livelihood of this human man kept under protective ayers of warm-blooded skin. The alien temperature._

_The softness of him._

_His silence extends for just a heartbeat too long, and Thrawn feels himself begin to panic._

_However, to his great relief, Eli Vanto just grins._ _“Sorry. I’m so weird!” With a friendly ease,_ _he releases Thrawn’s hand and rises from his bunk, shaking his head and speaking for both of them.“Sometimes I let my curiosity get the best of me. Obviously! Anyway, Thanks for sharin’ that. I think it’s very interestin’ stuff to learn.” He turns his back on Thrawn, making his way towards the refresher. “Hit the lights if I take too long, alright? I’m not sure about your sleepin’ schedule, but I’m_ _very_ _ready for some rest.”_

_With that, he departs from their sleeping quarters: leaving Thrawn feeling perplexed and strangely awakened._

* * *

When he finally reaches the door, Thrawn hesitates. 

His knuckles hover over the edge of the frame, resting just outside of the scanning stone. He pauses to hear the sounds of the night around him: the whisper of wind moving through the underground city; the crackle of static upon his open com; the heaviness of his breathing from running ( _or, perhaps, something else)._ Suddenly frozen into the spot, he feels his limbs grow heavy with resistance. 

_Are you insane! What’re you thinking?_ he hears the voice of someone - Ezra? - inside of his head. Not as though he is present, but more like a warning. _This is ridiculous! Did you expect him to just open the door for you in the middle of night? Were you thinking that if you’d run yourself across the city that he’d just throw himself into your arms?!_

And, suddenly, this is beginning to feel like a _very_ bad idea. 

Thrawn swallows, feeling his brain churning into high gear. _No, no. This isn’t proper. You shall see him tomorrow, with everyone else, and hope to find some time for discussion. In time, perhaps he will receive your friendship; maybe, even, your courting. But this very foolish endeavor? Wherever did you leave behind your wisdom for strategic tactics?_

Withdrawing his hand, he takes a fearful step back. He’s even turning away when the comm device inside the pocket of his trouser buzzes.

_“Thrawn,”_ General Eli Vanto’s voice emanates from the linked call between them, _“am I back to just seein’ things, or are you actually standin’ outside of my doorway right now?”_ Thrawn feels every anxious nerve of his body blaze into life as he stargles and grasps at the humming connection. Light-headed, fingertips nearly trembling, he grasps hold of the comm and raises it to his lips. 

He finds himself speechless _again_. 

“Come on in, then,” a warm voice says from the doorway. And when Thrawn turns around, he can scarcely _breathe_ for the sight of Vanto standing there, _real,_ in his loose-fitting bedtime trousers, and blinking sleepily through the haze of those gorgeous, brown eyes. “I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say that this was what I was expectin.’”

Mutely, Thrawn simply stares. Vanto is... _older_ now. More seasoned. More _patient_. 

“Are you just gonna stand there until day?” Vanto complains, raising his tanned, chorded arms and rubbing at the newly-risen gooseflesh. “You’re lettin’ in all of the cold!” The motion makes the toned musculature of his core - _different_ from their earlier years, but not _bad_ \- ripple with his actions; and Thrawn cannot resist following the motion with his eyes. When he raises them again, he finds that the other man is watching him back. 

“...Ah,” Thrawn replies, mouth feeling dry. _“...Yes.”_

His stomach flutters at Vanto’s knowing smirk, and he follows him with the pull of the Force. 

As the doorway swishes closed behind him, Thrawn finds himself blinking around what appears to be a casual, Chiss space. Blue-toned tapestries hang from the stone-sculpted walls, and several, curved statues are on display. The sandy floor is shaded in purples, red and blues, and the melodic song of a fountain burbles in the centralized seating area. Under the lighting - which clearly follows all the muted, infrared-sensitive colors that his people so prefer in their own space - he can see that tasteful cushions and tables have been placed about. There is an electro-diffuser releasing the scent of citrus and peppermint, and it wafts through the space of the relaxing room, leaving him feeling alert and refreshed. As Thrawn blinks around at the elegantly-designed area, he knows that he wouldn’t likely be able to tell if the resident here was Chiss or human; and, due to his eye for artistic touches, that is saying something. 

Vanto, it seems, has learned to _belong_. 

“It’s not much,” Vanto’s voice says with a hint of humor, “but it’s home.” 

_Home._ In the echoed words from then to know, the other has _instantly_ transported Thrawn back to their earliest meeting: crouched among the foliage, blinking into the gaze of the Empire. Somehow - whether it be his smile, or his laugh, or his easygoing ways - Eli Vanto has _always_ made these most places around him feel like home. At the Academy, he had taught and defended Thrawn as his roommate; on the _Blood Crow,_ he’d stayed by his side as his aid and second-command. Even on the _Chimera,_ where the two of them had clashed and had come to a parting, Thrawn had always felt home by the other man’s side. 

_Amidst the Chaos, he is a gravity well. He is the richness of earth; anchor, and roots._

When Thrawn turns towards the other man, he finds that Eli Vanto has drawn closer than he’d first expected. The human man had gone into the resident kitchen area, returning to them with two, tall glasses of sparkling water held in his hands. Thrawn is relieved for the distraction (and for something to ease his dry, uncertain throat). He reaches eagerly forward, taking the cool, sweating cup and bringing it hurriedly to his lips. When he makes contact, their fingertips brush; and he closes his eyes, drinking and trying to drown out the thunderous sound of his beating heart. 

“Expecting?” Thrawn says _(only once he has drained his entire cup dry)._

“More like _hopin,”_ Vanto replies. “I don’t always get these things right; but after the way that way you were actin’ back there in the war room? I had a sneakin’ suspicion that you’d come and find me.” He gazes up at Thrawn, smiling crookedly, dark eyes so different and yet so familiar. 

Gazing back, Thrawn feels a warning _pound_ inside of his chest. _“Acting?”_

Vanto smiles wryly. He places his half-drunk glassware upon the nearest table, then looks up at him through the corners of those long-lashed, dark, and intelligent eyes. “Maybe,” he says, looking at Thrawn carefully. “But maybe not. I dunno, Thrawn, but I’d have to say that our time apart may have sharpened my senses. I’m far better at deduction, now, you know. And all this time livin’ here among the Chiss? It’s taught me how to pay attention.” He eyes Thrawn, and there is a noticeable flare of heat across his features. “And I mean, how to _really_ pay attention. So now, after seein’ you again here today, I’m thinkin’ that your whole ‘mysterious’ side isn’t quite _that_ mysterious.” The declaration doesn’t appear to be a threat. In fact, in many ways, it seems to be an... _invitation._

“My…” Thrawn’s words are quiet, feeling numb and foreign upon his lips. “My whole... _mysterious side?_ ”

And, perhaps, Eli Vanto has not become all _that_ patient in his time among the Chiss, and as the newest EDF general. Because he sharply inhales a strong pull of breath; he leaves behind his glass on the side table; and he _throws_ himself - with bodily need and aggression - into the arms of his former commander. 

“ _You!”_ Eli hisses, grasping a fistfull of uniform, hair in the other- “Are the most _dense--!”_

He doesn’t finish his sentence. But he _does_ wrap his short, muscled limbs around him - _crushes_ their desperate, open-mouthed faces together - and _kisses_ Thrawn - with the most reckless kind of abandon, with all of the longing and passion and hope that he could have wanted in the universe. 

Thrawn _gasps._ “ _Eli!”_

He feels astonishment at the bending curve of his spine; the hungry movement of his form to meet these offered affections. He feels delight at the artistry of it: the perfect, _shameless_ way that the lines of their bodies are blurring together: the melding of lips to the searching of hands. He feels curiosity, _wonder,_ at the rightness of it: the way that Eli’s body reaches and calls for him; the confident way that his own answers back. 

He _feels._

With the saltwater taste of tears on his lips - from his own making, or his partner’s - he groans into kiss after kiss upon breathless lips. By each one of them, the drum of his heartbeat rises ever faster; the heady, sky-spinning _need_ to lose himself, to dissolve into the other, threatens and powers to overtake him. He finds himself panting, lips flushed and blooming, darkened from zealous, _passionate_ bites. 

_“Eli Vanto…_ ” he croaks, cradling this moment within his heart and his hands. “Eli, I had not _realized…_ I did not _believe…_ ” 

The other man silences him with the gentlest of kisses. “Yes you _did_ ,” Eli replies firmly, voice rasping and dry, even more so than Thrawn’s. “Yes you _did,_ you great piece of beautiful _shit_ , and you _willfully_ _ignored_ all my advances. Time and again. Year after year.” His eyelids brush wet and dripping against the blue of Thrawn’s skin, wet and pleasant and strange all at once. “So don’t you even bother _pretendin’_ otherwise. Because I know you better than that, Thrawn. _So_ _m_ _uch_ better than that.” 

Thrawn swallows, throat feeling raw with emotion. 

He turns his head to the side, resting his cheek upon the brow of the man that he’s loved for so long. 

“It...was not _proper…_ ” he hears himself saying, the words sounding frail as flimsy as they hit the air. “It was illegal within the Empire. _Dangerous_ .” When he feels Vanto shifting beneath him, he allows for a slip of space to come between them. It almost _hurts,_ that slightness of distance. “You could have been killed by the Emperor. I could have lost my way with the Chiss--” 

“--You could have lost _me,”_ Eli replies. 

Lifting a hand, he tilts Thrawn’s chin downward. Gazing up at him, his dark eyes are blazing with fierce intention.

“But, fortunately for _us_ , there are powers stronger than even _you_ in this big, wide universe.” His eyelids grow heavy. He slides a hand through Thrawn’s loosened, dark hair, eyes never leaving him with his gaze nor touch for a moment. “Seems like the Force has chosen to bring us back together. And _this_ time, Mitth’raw’nuruodo, you will _not_ just up an' bid me a ‘good day.’” 

At first, Thrawn gasps; but then, when he finds the other man smiling, the pair of the fall into a tender chuckle. 

“Yes, sir,” he replies softly. “As you say, Gerneral. You are now, after all, _my_ commanding officer.” 

Eli looks at him tenderly. And - with all the beauty, confidence and power that Thrawn had always known that the younger man had kept within him - he watches as his former subordinate rises and as he offers him an opened hand. He takes it; weaves their fingers together; and follows his partner into the soft, evening darkness.

Perhaps, some things _do_ turn out better than expected. Perhaps, there _is_ a path of hope to the future, amidst the chaos. 

Because Eli Vanto is leading him forward. He's drawing Thrawn deeper into his home - very likely towards his own sleeping quarters - where he will also fall more deeply into his heart. He is guiding him with a point of steady, warm, _radient_ light - the glowing assurance of returned affection. He is guiding him into a new way of being - one where apologies are offered, new trust is given, and something entirely better is forged. And he's bringing Thrawn _with_ him - a fellow pilgrim, right alongside him - not out of duty or fear, but out of _love._

For _"I know where I belong: It's right here, by your side."_

And it's just as it should be.

* * *


	9. Thrawn

* * *

**NINE | THRAWN**

* * *

For the first time since they had met, Thrawn does not dream of Eli Vanto.

Instead, he stays alongside him. 


	10. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra Bridger causes some mischief. Thrawn is or is not put on trial. Ezra attempts a test of his own.

* * *

**TEN | EZRA**

* * *

For the first bit, he tries to find answers by keeping up with Thrawn. _Where’s he off to?_ Ezra wonders. _And at this hour?_

The pursuit is fun, but it isn’t easy. There’s no denying that now Thrawn is fully recovered from his various injuries that he moves with a kind of athleticism that not even Ezra can hope to keep up with. And unlike the human Jedi, the Chiss has his luminous-red night vision to assist him as he moves through the city. So it’s unsurprising that Ezra ultimately finds himself sprinting blindly through the darkness, gulping down lungfuls of air, leaping from one platformed roof to the next as he attempts to follow his stealthy friend. 

_Looks like he knows where he’s going,_ Ezra muses. _Seems like he’s out for more than fresh air..._

Which is just fine with him, truly, because his curiosity has been clawing to grab hold of his attention since they’d exited the Mitth summer home. In his pursuit of Thrawn, they’d raced past night marketplaces, vibrant with color; cramped alleyways, hazy with mystery; tall, decorated buildings, glowing with lanterns and standing tall and proud. And soon as they enter the city center - impressive and startling in its towering presence - Ezra finally allows Thrawn to slip away from him into Csaplar’s shadows. 

_Ah, he’ll be fine,_ he thinks, grinning and looking around him. _Plus, I’m way overdue for some exploring!_

And so he finds himself walking towards a building that he’s almost certain is Csilla’s capitol, marvelling at the structure around him. He’s still learning a lot about Ascendency politics, but Ezra knows enough now to deduce that this building probably holds the various Syndicate meetings for the Chiss Aristocra. 

_Beautiful. Bet it’s cool inside, too! I wonder what kind of security measures they’re using…_

Ezra takes an eager step forward, then hesitates. For a moment, he remembers the expression on the soldier’s faces as they’d surrounded them in the forest; the rough, threatening tone used by Captain Samakro as he’d stood in their dwelling doorway earlier that night. But then _,_ he remembers his traveling companion’s cool, mocking tone: “ _And do you always do what you’re told?”_ And the determination for mischief tonight swells inside him. 

_Kriff it: let’s go!_ Grinning, Ezra Bridger makes his way up the path. 

It’s a marvelous, if not intimidating, building. Like the beautiful gateways above Csaplar, the material that composes the Syndicate structure appears to be made up of curved, glistening transparisteel (or living icework). Even in the darkness it shimmers with cold-toned colors, giving the liquid illusion of flash-frozen water that has been sculpted into radiant towers. Whistling with appreciation, Ezra walks with his chin tilted up and his eyes skyward. In doing so, he nearly stumbles over a series of spherical sculptures. 

Once he discovers that it is in fact a three-dimensional map, he skips from one foot to another across the planets, moons, and constellations.

“Neat!” Ezra says appreciatively. 

When he approaches the Syndicate’s tall, ornate doors, he takes a moment to stare up at them in appreciation. “Pretty solid,” he says. “But I wonder, if I can just…” he reaches forward, putting the palm of his hand against the smooth, sparkling handle. For a moment, it doesn’t budge: but when he adds in a little _Effort_ from the Force, the right, coaxing nudge is moving it open. “I’m in!” Ezra crows, pushing the door open. “Oh, _excellent._ Now, let’s go see what’s inside!” 

His excitement flickers briefly when he remembers that he is alone. 

“I miss you guys,” he says aloud, thinking of his _Ghost_ family. If they were here with him right now, Ezra knows that Zeb would be just behind him, providing a hulking _(if not annoying)_ presence of defense; that Sabine would be right at his side, crouched low and clutching spray-paint canisters in her hands; that Hera would be hanging back, holding down the ship _(and preventing Chop from more murder);_ and that Kanan...that Kanan _wouldn’t be_ …“I miss you _all_ ,” he says again, softly. 

In some ways, it feels as though he has lost his _whole_ family. But Ezra is determined: he _will_ see all of them again. Whether it’s home on Lira San with Kallus and Zeb, or whether it’s ranging on a ship once Sabine finds him - _because I know that she will_ \- he feels deeply and instinctively trusts that he will be reunited with his family once more. Because while this time of wandering space with Thrawn has been an adventure, and while the Force is using him here to accomplish some kind of ends, he just _knows_ that he will return to where he belongs. It’s only going to be a matter of time. 

“But let’s dwell on that later,” he says, speaking aloud to no one in particular. “For now, we’ve got _worlds_ to explore.” 

Walking forward, he gazes into the dark. It’s gloomy; but he can imagine that it is _astounding_ when the lights are on during regular hours. Each one of Ezra’s footsteps echoes, and he can tell that the ceilings are tall and the hallways are rounded, enhancing every one of the sounds. “Curious,” he says, blinking with surprise as each of his footsteps are illuminated ( _then fade away)_ under his feet. “ _Radical!”_ He adds, seeing that stomping a little bit harder leaves _ripples_ of clear, blue light underneath. 

“I wonder if this is supposed to be pretty?...Or if it’s supposed to make you feel... _worried._ Like every one of your steps is being recorded.” 

A thrill of unease and excitement jolts up Ezra’s spine, and he looks around him hurriedly. _There’s nobody here,_ he reminds himself, deciding not to reach out with the Force. _You’re fine. It’s just a creepy building at midnight._ Walking forward, he keeps his eyes on the illuminated steps and listens to the echoing sounds of his weight and breathing as he moves down the hallway. _Creepy, but artsy. Kinda like Thrawn!_

The thought makes him grin. 

Ezra is able to see dimly-lit shapes in the darkness due to his illuminated footsteps. He sees portraits hanging upon the walls, consisting of gatherings of blue-skinned Chiss families. Upon closer inspection, each one of the portraits is embellished with a name in Chenuh: _Irizi, Ufsa,_ and _Kiwu_ are some of the titles alongside _Mitth,_ so he can only deduce that these are paintings of the nine ruling families. Taking a step back. Ezra inspects the Mitth gathering to see if he can distinguish Thrawn from among them. It’s more difficult than it should be, with his untrained eye: the tall, contoured, distinctive features that make his friend stand out from so many others around him seem to be the norm among the chiss. After failing to find him ( _nor Grand Admiral Ar’Alani and General Eli Vanto)_ among the paintings, he gives up and decides that they must be outdated. 

“Or exclusionary,” he muses aloud. “Thrawn seemed pretty touchy when Old Buddy Sam didn’t call him New Rodeo. Wonder what’s really going on there…” 

Shrugging, he decides that the mysteries of Chiss family politics are beyond him tonight. Ezra continues on with his exploration, this time admiring the busts and statues that have been placed out on sturdy pedestals. Here he begins to acquaint himself with the various looks of their alien facial structure: the variety in spacing of noses, cheekbones and eyebrows: the softness (or sharpness) of a given jawline: the tendency towards growing out long hair, with the occasional short-haired rebel. _Wutroo,_ he thinks, grinning at one of the statues of the Kiwo-line women. _I knew that I liked her._

It also appears that none of them ever seem to grow facial hair. “Except General Eli Vanto, of course,” Ezra ponders, scrubbing at the shadowy bristles on his own chin. “Wonder why Thrawn ever sent him here in the first place? Wonder if he had plans, or if it was before…?” And, while he’s pondering this, he suddenly feels a pulse through the Force. 

Of another living, breathing presence. _Here._

“Who’s there?” he barks, spinning and resting a hand on his lightsaber. 

“Oh, you know _Eli’van’to_ ?” another voice replies through the gloom: lyrical, femanine, _curious._ “In that case, you must be one of the new arrivals.” 

Stepping out of the shadows, Ezra sees a dark-haired, cobalt-blue Chiss woman. She appears to be younger, close to his age in years, even though she carries herself with the confidence of a much older person. And while her eyes glow the same scarlet-red of other Chiss people, he notices right away that hers also carries with them a distinctly _mischievous_ look. _(He also notices--and much to his surprise, because he tries not to notice such things--that she is very, very attractive.)_

“Um, _yep,”_ he replies, shifting his hand away from his weapon. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m Ezra Bridger.” 

She raises an eyebrow while smiling at him, giving him the impression of something both sweet and... _dangerous_. Ezra takes in the beautiful locks of her dark, braided hair; the lovely, purple-black flow of her garments; and he realizes, with a flash of embarrassment, that he’d left their dwelling place earlier that night in pursuit of his friend without so much as a change of his traveling clothes.

_Karabast! Just like Thrawn to mess things up, even when he’s not here!_ He tries and fails to flatten his hair. 

As if sensing his thoughts and feelings, her dimpled smile widens. “ _Ezra’Bridger,”_ the woman replies in a musically-accented Basic. “ _Yes._ The sky-walker, and travelling companion of Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” Even though her tone is sweet, warm, and inviting, Ezra Bridger has the distinct feeling that he is in _trouble_. “You should _not_ be here at this hour.” 

Eager to agree, Ezra raises his hands in submission. 

“You’re right, of course, on both accounts!” He flashes her what he hopes to be a winning smile, but feels anxious butterflies churn in his gut. “I’m Thrawn’s sky walker. Well, not _Thrawn’s._ But, you know, he’s a friend of mine. Well, guess I _think_ that we’re friends--” he watches her gaze narrow, and he waves his hands in the air. “--but that doesn’t matter! Like you said, I’m not supposed to be here right now. I was just, uh, out for a walk to get some fresh air! And I saw the door open. So I wanted to check and make sure that everything’s square.” 

She raises her other eyebrow. Ezra can see that she doesn’t believe him. “The door was _open?”_ she asks, resting a hand on her hip. 

_Wow,_ Ezra blinks. _That’s one hell of a hip! Uh._ He shakes his head, forcing himself to pay attention to the moment at hand. _Kriff. C’mon, focus, Ezra! You’re gonna need to do better than that, if you want to get out of here without getting the both of you into more trouble._ For a moment, he feels a guilty flash of unease about placing more of a burden on Thrawn; then, recalling that the whole reason they’re here is because of Lothal, he casts the thought aside. _Nah. We’re equally culpable in this. Anyways…_

“I suggest that you go back to the Mitth family home, Ezra’Bridger,” the young woman replies, eyeing him closely. “We wouldn’t want you to make a bad impression on the Aristocra in the morning.” 

He sees the offering out, and he grasps hold of it. Nodding, Ezra begins to step his way back towards the doorway. “Ah, good idea! Yeah, now that I know everything’s ship-shape in here, I’d best be going about on my way. Um, thanks for stopping in to make sure that all is well! I’ll catch you later, er…?” He pauses, waiting to see if the young woman will offer a name. 

She folds her arms. “Vah’nya,” she replies, sounding somewhere between cautious and amused. 

“Er, yeah! Thanks, Vah’nya!” He puts effort into making sure that he says her name correctly, _respectfully,_ as Thrawn had been urging him to. “I appreciate it! I’ll see you later, and…” almost back to the doorway, he suddenly pauses. “...Wait. What are _you_ doing here, at this hour? Are you supposed to be lurking around in the Syndicate building after everybody else is sleeping? Are you some sort of member of the Aristocra?” He watches her shoulders slightly tense. “Or are you up to something _else?”_

“Good- _night,_ Ezra’Bridger!” Vah’nya says in a directive command. 

Not wanting to take his chances, he turns and flees. 

_So many secrets!_ He thinks, racing away and back down the pathway towards the summer home. _So many things that I have to learn - about Thrawn, about Eli, about all of the Chiss in this city - Vah’nya!_ He grins, feeling a flush of heat come to his cheeks. _Even the Grand Admiral and her close assistant._ _There is so much to explore; they’re all wrapped up in so many stories._ Breathing lungfuls of night, feeling his heartbeat racing with excitement and pleasure, Ezra lopes his way through the winding streets of Csaplar. _And I’m going to start finding them out. After all, we’re committed to building up an alliance. I’ve got to get to know this new group of rebels, if we’re really going to take down the Empire._

He'll mull it all over after some sleep, and a shower.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning is a _delicious_ affair. 

Aside from teasing a tousle-haired, sleep-deprived Thrawn with an endless series of meaningful looks, Ezra Bridger enjoys a broad variety of foods that he’s never seen nor heard of before, but finds delicious. There are plump, fuzzy-skinned fruits that smell like butter and cinnamon when they’re cracked open; there are hand-sized, mouth-watering flatcakes that are bursting to the brim with creme, syrup and berries; there is a heady, nectary-heavy drink that he’s fairly certain has some alcohol; and not to mention, all of this came in _bottomless_ portions, so that he could fill his wedge-shaped plate again and again. 

On his third trip back from the banquet table, Wutroo stops him. 

“Easy there, kid,” she grins at him, eyes dancing with humor. “Or you’re not gonna have room for teatime later.” The look that he must have given her in return must have been humorous, because the shorter, spiky-haired Chiss bursts into laughter. “Thrawn, didn’t you _feed_ your nephew?” she scolds, elbowing her former commanding officer in the ribs _(who, in turn, looks highly affronted)._ “He’s eating like you never fed him so much as a ration bar!” 

Thrawn opens his mouth to say something sharp, but he stops when he meets Ezra’s raised brows. Meaningfully, still holding Thrawn’s gaze, Ezra tilts his head over towards General Vanto. 

_“Yes,”_ Thrawn replies tersely, jaw clenched with patience. “I suppose that I could have fed the human better.” 

Ezra feels a bubble of laughter rise in his gut. His travelling companion is shooting him a dangerous glare, clearly implying, _‘when I get a hold of you later…’_ and yet he simply grins, ignoring the threat. Sure, Thrawn can posture and bluff like this all he wants: but his hands are _tied_ , and both of them know it. Thrawn has realized that Ezra followed him last night into the city; and that he’s figured out where the Chiss man had lingered late into the hours of morning, and _who_ precisely he’d spent his time with. 

And--as long as he’s got some _dirt_ over Thrawn--Ezra’s sure as kriff gonna _use it._

General Vanto peers at Thrawn over his suspended spoonful of yolk and frowns. “ _The human?”_ he says, voice carrying with it a tone of disapproval. “Thrawn, I thought that you’d learn to respect your friend enough to go by first-names now? And, besides: now that there are _two_ of ‘us humans’ here--” he nods at Ezra, a dip of the head in acknowledgement, “--you’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

It’s _fascinating_ to watch Thrawn’s arrogant posture be so quickly humbled by Eli’s words. “Yes, General,” he replies smoothly. “My apologies, Bridger.” 

Ezra rolls his eyes. He’s aware of the subtle burn, meant to slight him; knows how Thrawn had _long_ moved past calling him ‘Bridger’ and to calling him by his full name _(if not simply Ezra)._ The deliberate way of antagonizing him is another bit of revenge--revenge for how Ezra has been teasing the other man all morning, and how he will, no doubt, be teasing him until far later. 

_Maybe I don’t have Sabine, Zeb or Chopper with me,_ Ezra thinks, slurping his own spooned mouthful. _But I’ve sure as the stars got my own sibling nonsense to carry._

“Yes. Now that we’ve got _that_ out of the way,” Grand Admiral Ar’alani-- _who clearly has no room for drama or nonsense_ \--sniffs, “Let’s discuss our plans for this morning.” She folds her hands in her lap, examining Thrawn and Ezra with those fierce, glowing eyes. “Our first stop will be at the Syndicate building. After introducing you representatives from the nine ruling families, you will be expected to present your case.” She looks at Thrawn. “Not just the fullness of your report, Mitth’raw’nuruodo, but also your reasoning for your presence here now. Only _after_ you’ve defended your reasoning here, we will hear your intentions for an alliance.” She smiles, and it is not altogether pleasant. “That is, if they deem it worthy.” 

Wutroo waves a hand in the air. “Well, of _course_ they’re going to find it worthy!” she exclaims through a mouthful. “They’ve got trustworthy allies, which is what we need to defeat the Empire.” 

Ar’alani looks at her personal aid coldly, but Wutroo doesn’t seem to notice. Likewise, Samakro is giving her a hard stare, while Thrawn is looking deeply uncomfortable. “What? We all know it’s true. Even with it being Mitth’raw’nuruodo, hopefully _your_ endorsement is going to be enough to hold water.” She chews, then seems to notice for the first time that she’s speaking too frankly and boldly, perhaps, for her rank. “ _Ma’am,”_ she adds casually, toasting her boss with a glass. 

The Grand Admiral seems to repress a sigh. “ _Hopefully,”_ she agrees, gaze directed at Thrawn, “you are not incorrect. I shall indeed be calling in favors.”

Ezra places his chin in one palm, watching the back and forth of politics. He can see from the dynamics of this merry band that Thrawn--for all of his wisdom and prestige in the Empire--is currently seated as the subordinate here. After that, it was probably himself, or Captain Samakro; then followed by Wutroo, and the human general, Vanto. Not for the first time, he wonders what it must feel like for the former Grand Admiral to be seated at a table surrounded by superior officers. It has likely been a _long_ time since Thrawn has been vulnerable to the many whims of people more powerful than himself. And he’d feel bad for the guy; if he wasn’t _Thrawn._ The man is far from helpless.

And Ezra knows from experience that he likely has more than half a _dozen_ plans up his sleeve to pull for their advantage. 

“After the Syndicate, we have arranged a trip for you to visit your Mitt family home at the countryside residence,” Ar’alani continues. “There are several who would be eager to greet you, and who have requested an audience. I am hopeful that you will deign to meet with our current trainer of Sky-walkers, Mitth’ali’astov? And with retired Speaker, Mitth’ras’safis?” 

Something about this information shocks Thrawn. Ezra can tell by the way that his body stiffens, his eyes burn bright with surprise.

“Indeed?” his friend asks, radiating a kind of frantic energy out through the Force. Ezra pushes upon the emotion gently, unspooling a memory of two men standing together upon a warship’s deck. One of them, he knows, is Thrawn; the other looks perhaps similar, but not similar enough to be blood relations. 

“Yes,” Ar’alani replies, her mouth curling into a knowing smile. “Both are eager to tell you their tales...” 

As a range of stirring emotion flows out from Thrawn, Ezra feels the faint impulse to reach out and touch his hand. His mind is filled with the strong emotions and spinning stories - ( _l_ _oss; anxiety; disbelief; guilt)-_ and he’s inches away from his friend when he sees a subtle movement under the table. It’s... _General Vanto_. And _he_ is the one reaching out to Thrawn. Vanto is shifting his posture, moving his position so that one of his shorter, booted legs is resting gently against Thrawn's from under the table. Quietly, and without drawing attention to the other man's discomfort, Ezra watches him provide Thrawn with a moment of unspoken comfort. 

“And _before_ all of that,” Samakro growls, “We’ve got to get you two cleaned up. No _disrespect_ , sir, but…” he scans them in distaste. 

“But I like it! It's _rugged!_ You look like you’ve been traveling across the whole galaxy!” Wutroo chirps, elbowing Thrawn and knocking his fork out of his hand. “What’ja ride in here on, anyway? _Purrgil?”_ And when several people at the table stiffen, Ezra realizes that at least one of them have learned of their story. “Oh, _c’mon._ You’re not going to tell me that ya’ll _actually_ wound up surfing on purrgil _._ Right?"

_"RIGHT?!"_

* * *

The Syndicate building appears much more intimidating in the light. 

Ezra tugs at his collar, trying to breathe easier. He’d been accompanied by a surly, ill-tempered Samakro to the local tailor, where he’d been suited with a high-necked, long-torso tunic that matched the brilliant blue of his eyes. Even without the high collar, it wasn’t the most comfortable thing: gemstone buttons, stiff stitching, a buckle that held the tunic in form to his waist. But this is not the first time that Ezra’s had to wear a disguise: back when he was with his family, he’d don _anything,_ so long as it meant success for their mission. _But the tights aren’t so bad,_ he thinks, feeling the swishy freedom of the dark, form-fitting trousers that clung to his skin like a layer of water. _Not gonna help with the cold, but these at least they’re comfy._

“Stop _fidgeting_ ,” Samakro growls, walking beside him with proud, measured footsteps. “These are formal, high-prestige clothes. But it’s not going to _matter_ if you’re only going to act like a _wildling_.” 

Ezra scowls, tugging at the collar again. “If you would have just let me pick out the low-cut one,” he tells the other man, “then we wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.” He scratches at his neck, resists the urge to pull the thick, woolen coat over his itching shoulders. 

“Those were _women’s_ clothes!” Samakro snaps. 

“Clothes _don’t have a gender!”_ Ezra retorts. 

Their bickering is drawn to a halt when they arrive in front of the towering doors. Recognizing the glittering handle from his exploits the night before, Ezra pretends to appear wonderstruck at the imperious building, gazing up at the flowing towers with eyes that are opened wide with childlike surprise. He whistles and gives a shiver ( _and it’s not_ _altogether performative; his trimmed and styled hair is still wet from the barber)._

“Don’t just stand there and stare like a _blerg_ ,” Samakro snaps. “Lieutenant Vah’nya already told me about your mischief last night.” 

Halfway through taking a step, Ezra stumbles. He looks up, blinking rapidly. “ _L_ _ieutenant_ Vah’nya?” he asks, thinking of the beautiful young woman who had confronted him last night. “What, so like, you two work together?” He’s met by a narrow-eyed scowl from the other man, and is forced to follow him into the building unanswered. “So, she’s part of the Expansionary Defense Fleet? Is she also a foot soldier?” Samakro holds up a finger to his lips in silence, and Ezra lowers his voice to a whisper. “Is she your superior officer? Ouch, that’s gotta hurt--she’s _younger_ than you, after all--” 

Samakro is eager to leave him once they arrive at the gathering Syndicate’s doors. 

“Ezra’Bridger,” Thrawn greets him politely. He looks... _refreshed,_ now that he’s become more acclimated. The navy-blue, robe-like clothing seems to fit his tall, lean form much better than his own, and he seems to have regained some of an air of confidence about him that had been deflated at breakfast. Ezra is surprised to see that, unlike serving the Empire, he’s also chosen to keep his hair long. Like his own, it has been trimmed and tailored, but otherwise left with clean, sweeping edges. 

“New’Rodeo,” he replies cheekily. “You clean up good! We oughta shower more often, Uncle.” 

There is a quiet cough, and Ezra turns to see General Eli Vanto waiting outside the Syndicate doorway for them.

Or, perhaps, not waiting for _him,_ exactly: for, now that they have been left by the Grand Admiral and the others, he realizes that the man has eyes only for Thrawn. It appears that the attention is returned. “You’ll be _fine_ ,” Vanto murmurs, stepping forward to brush some non-existent dirt from Thrawn’s shoulders. “Just tell ‘em like it is--use all of yer fancy words--and it’ll turn out okay.” 

Ezra feels a moment of shyness at the tension of intimacy between them.

Before this very moment, he hadn’t even considered that Thrawn could be feeling a shred of doubt; now, seeing his form bending downward towards Eli for reassurance, he can see the very real suggestion of fear in his shoulders. _How did I miss that before?_ He wonders, watching Thrawn murmur something quietly into the other man's ear that he cannot hear. _What else have I not noticed, even now though I’ve gotten to know him so well?_

Rightening, Thrawn straightens his stole. Then, with a quick, backward nod at Ezra, he steps inside of the Syndicate hall. 

To Ezra’s surprise, the doors shut behind him. 

“What?” he says, blinking and trying to make his way forward. “Hey, why don’t I get to--” But General Eli Vanto’s hand shoots forward, blocking him firmly over the chest. Ezra blinks, looking down at the hand barring him from taking another step, surprised again by the strength of his short, compact power. “This is dumb. Nobody said that I couldn’t help Thrawn!” 

General Vanto smiles, and his dark eyes crinkle around the edges. 

“Nobody knew that they’d have to,” he replies, sounding as though he has found new appreciation for the young Jedi. “Walk with me, Ezra Bridger. We’re gonna to have a _lot_ of time to kill, waiting for this long-winded lot.” He nods down the long, winding hallway towards a sunlit structure that appears to be a spectacular greenhouse. “Besides. I’d like the chance to get to know you better.” 

Ezra realizes that it’s not a question. “Sure, why not?” he agrees. “I’ve been told that I've got _plenty_ of questions." 

General Vanto smiles minutely and tilts his head towards the waiting greenhouse. And so Ezra finds himself falling into step alongside the shorter, white-uniformed human, watching him out of the side of his eye. As they walk slowly down the echoing hallway, he thinks that he hears the EDF general humming. Which seems _odd,_ given the fact that Thrawn might be raked over the coals just about now. 

“Aren’t you concerned?” he asks finally, following Vanto into the greenhouse. “Thrawn could be arrested.” 

General Eli Vanto snorts. He tilts his head upwards in the greenhouse, watching the snowflakes landing upon the steam-dripping roof above them. _“He’ll be fine,”_ he says, repeating the words that he’d told Thrawn when they were standing together. “Thrawn has been court-martialed more times than most people have gone to the principal’s office. He’ll use some pretty words, show them all that fine data he’s collected, and they’ll let him go with nothin’ more than a stern warning.” He turns his gaze to Ezra, chin still pointed upward. “Don’t underestimate Thrawn. He’s _very_ good at what he does. And I’ve never seen him fail to get what he wants.” 

Ezra is caught between being impressed and wanting to make a sly, childish comment.

Unfortunately, his _childish_ side wins. 

“Gets what he wants, eh?” Ezra asks, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “Say, how long _exactly_ have you two been boning? Since _before_ Thrawn started committing war crimes? Or _after_ he’d started killing off rebels? I need some help with the details.” 

It’s a test, _of sorts,_ and Ezra Bridger regrets it immediately. 

As it turns out, Vanto is quite a bit like his Grand Admiral in that he is _not_ to be trifled with. In one swift movement, Eli Vanto is swinging an arm sharply forward towards Ezra; smacking him painfully about the ribs; and _clawing_ him downward with an iron-hard grip on his tunic, until the are facing each other, nose-to-nose. Vanto breathes into his face with bared teeth. 

_“What do you want with him?!”_ Vanto snarls, and it’s a fair imitation of any Chiss. “Are you threatening me? Are you threatening _Thrawn_?” 

Ezra gulps, internally cringing at his behavior. _Karabast! Why did I not see that coming? Zeb would have probably measured this man and figured it out long before I did._ Because, for all of his small stature and friendly gentleness, General Eli Vanto is clearly a warrior. This man is trained and sculpted by the hardness of the icy planet around him, every measure of the tall warlord’s equal. And it is now clear to Ezra that there is no length that he will not go to protect the man who the Force has decided to be their mutual acquaintance.

“S-sorry!” he says, raising both hands in surrender. “I just...wanted to know what sort of person you are.” 

Vanto’s anger seems to simmer at that. He releases his tunic through tightly-wound hands.

Ezra steps back, rubbing at his aching neck. “ _Kriff_ it,” he swears, eyes watering with pain as he returns to his full stature and crunches his spine. “You’re not messing around!” As he checks his tunic for tears, he sees General Vanto sigh and shrug his shoulders in what might be interpreted as an apologetic gesture. 

“Hmm. Never can be too sure,” Vanto replies. “You see, Mitth'raw'nuruodo has this way of...makin’ himself _enemies_. And right now, I’m just about at my capacity for wranglin’ them.” he exhales, looking weary behind his thirty or forty years of human age. “So, if ya _don’t_ mind, I’d rather not have to manage another.” 

Ezra nods. Along with a warm rush of relief, he also feels a pang of sympathy for this former-Imperial man. 

_Okay. So, obviously, I was_ **_right_** _: there’s something significant going on here between them.Thrawn cares for Vanto; and Vanto, for Thrawn. Seems like it’s more than just a passing fancy, too: like these feelings actually run pretty deep. Deep enough to get himself into a scuffle. Deeper than some exotic, political fling. At this rate, Uncle might really have his whole love-struck thing returned to him. Maybe he’s not the only one who has been crying names in their sleep at night…_

By the time he returns his gaze to the other man, Vanto seems to have regained his composure.

The general is breathing has regulated out evenly, standing with his back to Ezra. He is thumbing the fragile, red blooms of a curling flower, and seems to be lost in his own thoughts. _Not unlike Thrawn, when he gets_ moody. “I, er, apologize for being so _forward_ ,” Ezra offers to the man's white-clad, uniformed back. “I took things a bit too far.” 

Vanto turns, smiling dryly. 

“And I, for being so needlessly aggressive,” he replies. The words and tone of voice sound so much like his companion, that Ezra almost turns around to see if Thrawn has rejoined them. “In spite of my actions," Vanto continues, "I _do_ appreciate your candor, Ezra’Bridger. Your transparency is valuable; particularly, among so many politicians.” He winks, and it brings some of the warmth back into his features. “If we do agree to some kind of partnership between our Ascendency and your Rebel Alliance, then I will be doubly grateful for your directness." 

Ezra blinks in confusion. Then, remembering the deal that he’d offered just the Ascendency yesterday, he nods in agreement. 

“Oh, um, aright! Yeah, if you ever need someone to cut through the bantha-shit, that’ll be me.” He points a thumb at his chest. “But, like I said: sorry. I’ll try to tone it down a little bit. Believe it or not, I may or may not have been told by my 'Uncle' that I can be the _slightest_ bit _annoying_ at times. Not that he's _right_ or anything!”

Vanto chuckles. Ezra sighs, feeling them shifting back onto much safer conversational ground. 

“Guess that’s what happens when you grow up Wild Space or the Unknown Regions,” Vanto offers, making a connective gesture between himself and Ezra with one of his tanned, calloused hands. “Why don't we start over? C’mere, Sky-Walker: you’re from Lothal, correct? I’d like to show you one of the plants that comes from my native Lysatra. Do you see this Sun-Bloom? I’m guessin’ that you have somethin’ real similar on your own desert planet...” 

* * *


	11. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra and Thrawn journey to the Mitth family manor for some important meetings.

* * *

**ELEVEN | EZRA**

* * *

Before arriving at the Mitth family residence, Ezra had thought that he’d already seen the most beautiful sights on the planet of Csilla before. _After all,_ he’d thought to himself, _I got a personal tour from Wutroo through the capitol on that first day, and I got to see the Syndicate building glowing under the moon last night._ And yet, all of that wonder still pales in comparison to when he sees the breathtaking, snow-covered sight of the mountainside castle in the Csillan countryside. 

“Ya’ll live in a _castle?”_ he’d asked Thrawn, turning to blink at his friend sitting across the monorail transit. “No _wonder_ you sound so pretentious.”

Thrawn had narrowed his red eyes at him and scowled silently, but General Eli Vanto had just chuckled under his breath. 

Judging by everyone's generally positive disposition, it seems as though everything had turned out after Thrawn's with the Aristocra. According to Captain Samakro, Thrawn had been reinstated to his former title of _Defense Commander_ of the EDF; and he had been issued with the charge of attending to Ezra while the pair of them prepared for their next several diplomacy meetings with the rebels. _No problem,_ Ezra thinks to himself. _All we need is to figure out a way for some communication across the distance. If I can get us in touch with Hera, everything's going to work out just fine._ The Chiss were historically little wary of what they called "pre-emptive action," and had been reluctant to Thrawn's plans at first. According to Wutroo, it would still take some time and planning with the reluctant Speakers before they could get to a place where they wanted. However, the ultimate goal was in sight: the Syndicate leaders had agreed upon the proposal to craft a formal invitation of partnership with the Rebel Alliance. All it would take is some time and effort (with Thrawn's influence) before it could work. 

In the meantime, as a show of faith and goodwill, Ezra had been volunteered to invest his time by teaching Sky Walkers.

_The Navigators,_ Ezra thinks, stares out the window and watching the snowy landscape rush past. _At least, that's what Thrawn and Vanto had called them?_ He gazes at a patchwork of trees, watching some kind of great, scaly bird take off and shower the landscape in snowfall. _But_ _I wonder what that even means?_ _What do I have to teach them?_ _It's not like Kanan had the time to make me into a Master during our time together._ His hart gives a painful twang inside of his chest. 

_I was barely even a proper Padawan before I lost him._

“We’re almost there!” pipes up Wutroo, who stands from her chair and grasps the dangling rails. “When you leave the transit, Ezra’Bridger, try to stay close to Thrawn and the general” she looks at him knowingly. “You’ll get your full tour in time. I don’t think any of the resident guards will take kindly to strangers wandering about the castle." She laughs, and sunlight streams through the window and her short, spiky hair. "Plus, not everybody is as friendly and understanding as our good friend _Samakro_ here," she says, gesturing at the other guard.

Grinning, Ezra nods. _So long as I get a chance to explore,_ he thinks. _This place looks amazing._

If the stone-crafted mansion that they are approaching is worthy of attention, the arctic landscape around them is equally impressive. To get here, they’d traveled out of the city and into the wilderness: curving along the tall, crumbling glaciers; trailing through silent, pine-frosted forests; suspended above steaming, water-filled gorges. And just when things looked as though they couldn’t get any _more_ magical, the monorail had emerged into a stunning, rocky area where a tall, ivory castle was standing atop a rugged, snow-capped mountain.

_Somebody lives there,_ Ezra had thought in shock. And when their transit had pointed its nose towards the castle, he'd jumped with understanding. _Thrawn. That's the Mitth family castle!_

Even from a distance, the building expansive. Part of it is clearly older than the rest of the surrounding structure, built of aged stonework that seems to promote endurance and survival against the harsh winter. Towards the center, however, the towers and turrets began to look smoother and cleaner, more modern, as though they have been made with more expensive craftwork and materials as the family increased in wealth. By the time that his gaze had arrived to linger on the _other_ side of the castle, it is abundantly clear to even a foreigner like Ezra Bridger that this is a dwelling that's meant to convey privilege and power. 

“So you grew up here?” Ezra asks, fingers and nose plastered against the transparisteel window. "Ever since you were a kid?" 

Thrawn looks slightly uncomfortable, and Samakro and Wutroo both look away politely. Vanto, however, keeps his eyes steadily on Thrawn as he speaks in return. “More or less,” Thrawn replies quietly. “As I have told you before: our family systems work differently here than the structure with which you humans are familiar. As a child, I was--as it is called among my people--a _Merit-Adoptive._ A Merit-Adoptive is someone with promise who is selected or nominated by a patron, integrated from a lesser clan into one of the Ruling Families." 

Ezra blinks in surprise. “So you were adopted?” he asks. _Just like me. By the Spectres._ “Then the other Mitth aren’t your blood relatives…?” 

Thrawn and General Vanto exchange look. “For the most part,” he replies to Ezra. “But it is far more common a practice than you might think. In our society, being a Merit-Adoptive can have its own advantages. For example, I was given an opportunity to better myself in power, education and status that I would not have been able to achieve otherwise. If I had remained with the clan where I was born, I would doubtless not be among the present company now.” 

To Ezra, it sounds a bit rote, as though he's repeated such phrases before. 

The monorail crosses a high, hanging bridge; moves over a moat; and begins the final decent towards the waiting mouth of the castle. As the transport shudders to a hissing halt, and Ezra bites the inside of his cheek and ponders a new set of questions. _Hmm. Sounds_ _like Thrawn is making the best of a bad situation._ _Doesn’t exactly sound fair, this whole Aristocra system... unless you are born into one of the families of power (or you have some kind of fancy patron willing to get you there), you're stuck where you are. That doesn't leave many chances for travel, or learning, or somehow making the life you imagine._

He's drawn out of his pondering when Samakro rises and nods to a small, waiting team of what could be Chiss guards.

“This is where I take my leave,” he informs the party, eyes upon Ezra. “I’ll be waiting in the guest area once you and Thrawn have completed your tasks. If he wishes to stay...” the man’s eyes flicker towards Thrawn, then back towards Ezra, "...then I’ll escort you back to town as your assigned guard. Wutroo here will be leaving as well; she’s got to get back to the Grand Admiral’s office. We've been spared long enough as it is.” 

He looks at her for confirmation. “Yep!” Wutroo agrees, hopping up. “But I’ll wait with you here, Samakro, for now. No sense in me making two trips with the monorail.” She smiles at him easily. And, with surprise, Ezra feels a pang of loss at their departure. He finds that he'd actually enjoyed his morning in the company of the many new faces: cheery Wutroo, serious Ar’alani, and even the grumpier captain of the foot soldiers, Samakro. 

_(Plus, he’s not sure that he wants to be stuck between Thrawn and Vanto for the afternoon; not when his friend is making enough_ **_yearning_ ** _to flow through the Force that he’s practically falling in love with the human general_ _himself_ **.)**

“See you later, then,” he says, shaking hands with Wutroo. “It’s been fun.” And as he steps from the monorail into the snow, he can’t help but take one more, teasing jab at the uptight Chiss man standing to her left. “See you soon, Uncle Sam!” he chirrups. And, _oh,_ it’s well worth it: the angry captain makes a noise like a furious Loth-cat, hissing and spitting after him, reminding Ezra of the first time that he’d ever mocked Thrawn during their travel adventures. 

“You shouldn’t tease him so,” Thrawn chides as they crunch though the ice towards the entrance. “He is only doing his duty.”

Ezra shrugs. _More fun this way, though._

As they step into the shadow of the castle, he shivers and pulls his cloak tighter around himself. _COLD!_ He feels grateful that he’d brought a change of warmer clothes with him in his pack: not only because he is tired of wearing these stiff, high-necked robes that he’d been outfitted with for the hearing, but also because it is _far_ lower in temperature here on the icy surface than when they are snug in the underground caverns of Csaplar. 

“Does this castle go underground?” Ezra asks Thrawn hopefully. “Or do you just wear jackets inside?” 

Thrawn gives him a thin, side-eyed smile.

“Yes,” he replies, “and yes. Most of the residence dwells above the mountain, so I would advise that you keep your coat on. But some of the more casual resting places can be found buried underground.” For some reason, Ezra senses another surge of raw emotion from him. “However, I do believe that our first meeting is to be held in the library.” 

Ezra brightens, stepping under the archway and into the castle. “There’s a library? Of _course_ there’s a library. Probably an ice-skating rink, too, next to the swimming pool. And-- _oooOOOoohh!”_

He stops short, turning around in a circle. The interior of the castle is, _of course,_ magnificent: walls laden with scarlet and gold tapestries of the Mitth family colors; suits of Chiss battle-armor that have been worn with age yet are still polished to a gleaming perfection; hanging candelabras with glowing candles, casting the high-arched ceilings in a warm, golden glow. He takes a step forward and feels his boots sinking into the sand--granules that are, unlike their city dwelling, stained in those brilliant Mitth family colors--and bends to take off his boots. 

Thrawn coughs quietly, and Ezra looks up to see him giving the smallest shake of his head. 

“Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” says one of the guards, “If you and your guests are prepared, we can take you directly to the study. Otherwise, Mitth’ras’safis has invited you to make yourselves comfortable by selecting a room and stopping by the dining hall for refreshments.” Ezra trails along behind the Chiss soldiers and Vanto, observing the building and half-listening to the conversation. He does notice, however, the tenseness in Thrawn’s shoulders ( _and through the Force)_ at the mention once again of this particular Mitth family name. 

“No need to delay,” Thrawn replies tightly. “Let us proceed there directly.” 

_What’s with this Mitth’Sassy’fras?_ Ezra wonders, his eyebrows scrunching together. Walking behind them, he notices Vanto’s hand ghost over the line of Thrawn’s back in quiet reassurance. _Are they one of those ‘enemies’ that the general was talking about? Is there some kind of significant history between them?_ Struck by the memory of Kanan Jarrus pinching his nose at him in impatience, he smiles. _I don’t think that I can handle another ‘secret-lover’ backstory to show up right now…_

As it turns out, Ezra doesn’t have long to wonder.

As they enter the study, a tall, long-haired Chiss man rises from a decadent chair. 

_“_ Thrawn!” greets the warm-voiced, richly-dressed man. “How good it is to see you once more! And at our family homestead, no less.” His voice is low, smooth and enigmatic, and his face is handsome and somehow familiar. _Too familiar,_ it seems--for, as Ezra studies the lines and shades of his skin color, he suddenly becomes aware that this man is the _mirror image_ of Thrawn--if only, several years older. 

_“...Thrass._ I was not made _aware…_ ” 

The other man rushes forward and sweeps Thrawn into, of all things, a _hug_. 

“Well, of _course_ you were not, Little Brother!” the man called Thrass exclaims through the gesture. “Oh, but do try and follow: after working so tirelessly on manufacturing my apparent demise, would it truly serve for me to go and announce my survival to others?” He pats Thrawn on the back, holds him out at arm’s length for inspection. “After all, _dearest_ brother: It is no secret that you are a _terrible_ liar.” Thrass grins, giving Thrawn’s arms a little squeeze. “If I had shared the fullness of my strategy with you, neither one of us would yet be here now.” 

Thawn, standing stark-rigid, appears to sway in the spot. And, from where he is standing, Ezra is feeling a bit light-headed himself from the shock.

_So Thrawn has a brother?_ he thinks to himself, peering back and forth between the nearly-identical men. _Not just someone that he knows by blood, but someone that he trusted; that he was quite close for some time?_ As he watches the way that Thrawn is struggling to swallow back his waves of tangled emotion, Ezra feels a sympathetic wave through the force. _And one that, apparently, faked his own death--but failed to tell his own brother about it?!_ He isn't sure whether or not he ought to be mad on his friend's behalf. 

Suddenly, there is a loud, smacking sound of suction--and everyone turns to see General Vanto uncorking a dusty bottle. 

“You were savin' this?” he asks their host, holding what is clearly a bottle of priceless whisky within his hands. When Thrass raises a perfectly-groomed eyebrow in humor and shakes his head, the human general affirms, “ _Good_ .” And then begins pouring out tumblers for the gathered men. “How do you take your drink, Ezra’Bridger?” he asks, handing a glass to Thrawn _(which, of course, he’d prepared without question)._ “Or are you not old enough for such kinda beverages? I apologize: it’s been a while since I’ve been among humans, and ya'll look so _young_ from this angle.” 

_Ya'll,_ Ezra thinks. _You all: not me._ It appears that, after all of this time serving, General Vanto now thinks of himself as one of the Chiss society members. 

“I’m an adult,” he assures Vanto, reaching eagerly for the glass. “I’m well past my second decade of life, you know.” 

Vanto gazes at him knowingly, and Ezra suddenly realizes what this conversation is actually about: an attempt by the other human man to get their attention off Thrass and Thrawn, and for Vanto to give his ( _paramour? boyfriend?)_ partner some time to deal with the significant, emotional stress. _Clever,_ he thinks, raising the elegant glass to his nose. _He’s pretty smart, this General Eli Vanto. (Only natural, though, if he is Thrawn’s supposed equal.)_

The alcoholic drink smells delicious--like smoked nuts and summer moss--but the beverage itself is an utter _betrayal._

_"W-hwat?!_ " Ezra takes one gulp of the clear, shining liquid and _gags._ He quickly turns, doing his best not to spew the priceless beverage over the hand-woven garments that he is wearing, and to turn his streaming eyes away from the gathered party. _No need to make myself look like kid, after proclaiming myself as mature._ "Uh, I mean: _wow!_ Exquisite."

He catches Vanto giving him a small, half-concerned, half-pitying look. 

The conversation appears to have proceeded without them. “In that case, what reason _precisely_ did you invite me here for?” Thrawn asks his brother sharply, with his low voice taking on a more cold and dangerous tone. “You had no reason to include me in your plans before. You had no reason to inform me if they succeeded in the past. Thus I see no reason for you to include me in your strategic moves towards the future.”

Ezra hears Thrass laugh with a sound of sadness as he wanders over towards the wall-high bookshelves. 

“Thrawn, try to understand. I was under orders from the Aristocra to _not_ share that information with anyone; I could hardly share it with my younger brother, who was currently under suspicion of _treason!”_ There is a noise of scraping chairs, and Ezra hears several people sit down. “I did not willingly keep information from you, nor was it ever my desire for you to remain in the dark once I had returned to the manor. I was most earnest to see you and to share in discussion once I’d heard that you’d returned to Csilla.” There is a pause, presumably for drinking from glasses. “And I _do_ want you in my life, Thrawn. For, whether or not you will have me, I’ve still many years left to live. And I intend to make the most of it.” 

Listening to the crackle of fire in the splendid hearth, Ezra pulls an actual, flimsy-bound _book_ from a shelf. 

“Of course I do,” Thrawn replies. His voice is so low and quiet it is almost inaudible. “You are my _brother_.”

Ezra swallows the lump in his throat.

_Is my family feeling this kind of grief?_ He wonders, feeling the waves of anger, confusion and sorrow wafting from Thrawn. _Are they all thinking that I’m actually dead?_ With a new feeling of resolve, he decides that he will start recording holos of his daily journal. Even if he cannot reach the _Ghost_ with his current comm-device or transmissions, even if the Chiss do not have the technology to cross several galaxies across the stars, he _will_ prepare a message for them; with the hopes that, someday, they all will read it. 

_I’m counting on you,_ he’d said to Sabine. 

“Well! That’s good to hear,” Thrass says brightly. “Then we can continue on with the other pleasantries. I’ve made sure to prepare a wonderful feast, and all of the hot-spring baths have been made ready. I assume, of course, that you and your partner are staying for dinner?” 

There is a _spewing_ sound, and Ezra turns around to see Thrawn gagging on his half-drained beverage. 

“It’s nothin’ that’s yet public an’ _official_ !” General Vanto snaps. He’s flushed a dark, angry red and is thumping Thrawn’s back repeatedly. “Honestly: I don’t know where you Mitth brothers get off. This whole ‘ _bein’ geniuses’_ thing is all fine an’ dandy when you’re doin’ it for war tactics an’ such, but it’s _not_ for deducin’ what I’m gettin’ up to in my private circle.” 

Ezra grins, seeing that Thrass has come to the same conclusion as him this morning. He feels a quick pang of sympathy for the new lovers at being toyed with, but only a little _._ It’s _Thrawn,_ after all. 

“Ah. Duly noted. I shall henceforth avoid commending you on your--er-- _private circle.”_ Thrass leans back in his chair, folds his hands politely, and it takes Ezra everything that he has not to start laughing. _Maybe this guy isn’t so bad,_ he thinks, grinning lopsidedly at the older Chiss. _Guess he did stab his younger brother in the back and all, but he’s not some kind of monster._

As if realizing that there are new eyes upon him, Thrass looks up. 

“Oh, yes! My sincerest apologies, Ezra’Bridger.” He raises his glass, gesturing for him to come closer. “Thank you for your patience as we sort out some of the finer, more familial details. I should have introduced myself earlier, and made you at home before all of this fanfare.” He sips from his glass. “I’m Mitth’ras’safis, retired Syndic and former Speaker of the Eight Family of Mitth. As you now know, I call _this_ one my younger brother.” He nods at Thrawn, who scowls back at him. “And, as you are now well aware, we have a bit of a sordid history between us. But none of that matters now, nor holds nearly so much excitement as your new diplomatic endeavor.” 

His eyes take on an eager, almost _predatory,_ shine. It makes Ezra shiver, reminding him forcefully of when Thrawn was a Grand Admiral, and how he’d pursued them through the stars. 

“You have come to the right place for a mentor. Please! Come and join us: let’s talk _politics.”_

* * *

Ezra groans, dropping his high-collared tunic onto the floor of the lavishly-decorated Mitth room. _That was exhausting,_ he thinks, reflecting back on the hours-long meeting. _Exhausting, but productive._

After spending the afternoon talking about the proposed Chiss-Rebel Alliance, he’s come to the conclusion that he does _not_ trust Thrawn’s smooth-talking, sharp-thinking, charismatic older brother. _I’m glad that Thrass is our ally,_ Ezra thinks to himself, pulling on the waterproof trunks provided by the Mitth residence. _That man is too smart for his own good._ He recalls sitting at the round table with the others, plotting and laying out political tactics, while Thass had smiled like a red-eyed shark. _Maybe, even more so than his brother. Gonna try not to ever get on his bad side._

He stretches his sore, stiff muscles and reaches for a fluffy bathrobe and towel hanging over a velveteen chair. 

_Thrawn never answered my question if he grew up here,_ he thinks, gazing around the luxurious room. _He seems familiar, so I’m guessing at least partial._ After Ezra had been escorted to a wing of rooms overlooking the mountains, Thrawn and Vanto had disappeared into one of the hallways descending to the lower tunnels. _Probably won’t see them for a bit,_ the young Jedi thinks wryly. _And I’m probably just fine with that._ He needs a break in spending time with all of the Chiss--Vanto included. 

“Time for a soak in the hot-spring bath!” he announces to the skeletal Rancour head mounted on the wall. “I can unwind from all of this fancy-talk and travel, and just sit around in the steam by myself.” 

Ezra had seen the pools on the tour from one of the guards after their meeting: organic, sunken into the stone floors, the turquoise-colored pools were shimmering jewels on the planet's cold surface. He's never been one to sit still and enjoy being pampered with self care--that was always more of his brother _Zeb's_ arena--but he could tell a delicious experience when he sees one. And so, after inquiring about where he could find himself a bathing suit, Ezra had decided that he would spend some time to himself before his next meeting. 

_No Thrawn,_ he thinks. _No Vanto, no Chiss._

But as Ezra skipped down the long hallway towards the outdoor pools, humming to himself and thinking of floating in silence upon his back, he didn’t realize how very wrong such an idea was. Although he didn’t run into anyone on his way down to the stairs, he _did_ emerge from the quiet halls to find a small crowd of blue-skinned residents floating on top of the bubbling pools. And--over the curling stonework, across the steaming surface of the hotsprings--he sees the figure of a familiar, _lovely_ Chiss woman standing in the steaming water. And he’s _never_ been so delighted to find himself wrong before. 

“Lieutenant Vah’nya” he greets, giving her a jaunty wave as he slides into the pool filled with Chiss. "Nice to see you on this fine afternoon." 

Vah’nya blinks back at him, faintly startled. She appears just as surprised to find herself in the same location as the Jedi visitor, but perhaps, less enthusiastic about it as he was. “Ezra’Bridger,” she says, melodic voice at least sounding amused. “I did not realize that your arrival would be so soon. I was under the impression from Thalias that you and the Commander wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.” She places one hand on her hip, drawing his eye to the spot. 

Ezra struggles. The woman is, as he’d thought several times before: _gorgeous._

Vah’nya is clad in a coal-dark, form-fitting swimsuit, which clings tightly to each and every curve of her _(voluptuous, sensual)_ body. From what he can observe, Ezra sees that the arms of the woman are well-toned and chorded with muscle; that the thighs anchoring her beneath the steaming water are supple, sturdy and firm; that her breasts-- _STARS!!!--_ her breasts are lovely and perfect, floating on top the bubbling surface and stealing away his breath _(and attention)._

_KARABAST!_ Ezra thinks, sweating and staring. 

_(Yes, he's found a few women attractive before over the years. He's also noticed a few other men. But there is just something special about her that makes him feel like a stumbling school-kid again. Something alluring, almost magnetic about her: as though her presence is calling, beckoning him through the Force)._

There is a splashing sound, and a small, dark-haired head in the water draws away his attention.

Grateful for the sudden distraction, and snapped out from his intense staring, Ezra turns to see a little Chiss girl _(maybe five or six?)_ peeking around from behind Lieutenant Vah'nya's curved figure. “Oh, hello!” he says, squatting down so that he can be at eye-level to the child. “And who’s this? Your little friend?" 

When she gasps and disappears behind the Lieutenant, Ezra suddenly realizes that _all_ the Chiss surrounding him are, for the most part, quite a bit younger; and, for the large majority, girls.

“Um, hi there, er, everyone” Ezra says, waving a hand with the sinking feeling that he’s just crashed a party. _Oh goodness. These might very well be the Navigators that I'm meant to be meeting with later!_ “My name is Ezra Bridger. I didn’t realize you were having a party. A lesson? Ah. Anyway. I’ll come back later.” _So much for strong first impressions._ He feels a wave of embarrassment, particularly in making himself to be a fool in front of someone like Lieutenant Vah’nya. 

However, that is when another female figure emerges from the stealing pool, reaching out for Ezra and gesturing with her hands. “No no, _stay_!” she encourages, smiling at him with a soothing expression.

“We were going to have a more formal gathering later, but it’s actually just as well to meet you now!” This Chiss woman, who appears to be closer to Thrawn or Vanto’s age than his age or Vah’nya, has long, wavy hair and soft, kindly features. She has a nurturing and reassuring presence about her; and something about the way she is smiling puts him at ease and makes him feel surrounded by care. For a brief moment, Ezra finds himself longing for Hera. “I’m Thalias,” she continues “Or, Mitth’ali’astov, if you’d like my full title. I’m serving as the lead supervisor and caretaker of these young Navigators.” 

Ezra nods with blooming excitement and recognition.

“Oh! Ah! So, _you’re_ the Master?” he says, making a hasty bow in one of Kanan’s more respectful gestures. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Heh heh, very sorry that I interrupted your gathering: I didn’t know that anybody else was here.” He looks at Vah’nya, then blushes: it’s hard to keep composure, what with her curvaceous form clinging to that bathing suit. “We were just meeting with Thrass, and I wanted a break. Thrawn usually wants me to have better manners.” 

To his surprise, several of the Chiss girls ( _in_ _cluding the woman Thalias)_ giggles. 

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo _does_ respond well to formality, doesn’t he?” Thalias answers, treading water and smiling at him knowingly. “Do not worry, Sky Walker. We are not nearly as formal as the rest of those men. I can say for all of us that we are delighted to make your acquaintance.” She turns to Vah’nya, who shrugs with one shoulder and drifts away. “But I think you misunderstand. _My_ role is serving as the Senior _Momish:_ someone who organizes and attends to the children’s daily well-being and care. If you are looking for your Force-sensitive Master, that would be none other than Lieutenant Vah’nya over there." 

With a swooping lurch of surprise and pleasure, Ezra turns to look at the other Chiss woman. _Vah'nya? A fellow Force-wielder?_

Vah’nya, for her part, just raises an eyebrow back at him. 

“You’re a Jedi?!” he explodes, splashing through the hot, steaming water towards her. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t _anybody_ tell me?!” He comes to a halt in front of her, reading both annoyance and amusement in her expression. “Wait--I thought that General Vanto said that only young girls could use the Force? And that it was part of my assignment to learn why anyone over thirteen couldn’t, uh, _‘See’_ anymore? Did I get something wrong?”

There is a flash of anger across Vah’nya’s lovely features, but then, she settles back into something more neutral. 

“You are correct, Ezra’Bridger,” she replies evenly. “But the secrets of the Navigators are something that we hold to the utmost privacy. You are _not_ to share that kind of information with anyone else; just as you are to devote yourself to their training once you join the students for lessons.” She tosses her chin, flipping several of her long, tightly-woven braids over her shoulder. “And I could have asked you the very same question. As I recall, you attempted to _hide_ your lightsaber once you discovered that I was present.” 

Water bubbles and bursts in the hot spring between them. Thalias looks back and forth across the turquoise surface, and the little Chiss girl behind her starts to giggle. 

“I see that we have some catching up to do,” Thalias says, turning to fix Vah’nya with a curious gaze. “I was under the impression that you had not met the Jedi before…?” Vah’nya shrugs again with one of those muscled, smooth shoulders, and Ezra finds himself grinning at the cheekiness of the gesture. "Very well. It appears that we _all_ had things that we were expecting.” She sighs and shakes her head, smiling at Ezra. “It’s good that you’re here, Ezra’Bridger: we can take this time for some less-formal introductions. And then, if I can maneuver Thrass right, we can stay for extra dessert, rather than our planned session.” She smiles in a mischievous gesture. 

Delighted to escape another meeting, Ezra finds himself cheering along with the young Navigators. _Awesome! So_ _Thalias isn’t all that bad, either. I've got a whole, new crew to work with._

He’s starting to get a sense of understanding by now that Thrawn--for all of his stoicism, manners, and elegant character--is _not_ a fair representative of all Chiss. Just like any other species, including humans, that he’d ever met, the people living on Csilla are a bold and vibrant variety of individuals. (Ezra didn’t know what else he’d been expecting, but there had been a _part_ of him that had anticipated _everyone_ would be an emotionally-constipated egghead.) 

_Just my Uncle, then,_ he thinks cheerfully, shaking a young Navigator’s hand. _Just goes to prove General Eli Vanto’s point again, really._

_T_ _hat Mitth'raw'nurodo_ _is exceptional._

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Thrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn and Eli find comfort in one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: SEX! This is very much porn-with-feelings, so if that's not your thing, please know that you can skip to the next chapter without missing much regarding the plot. Thanks for always taking care of yourself and your needs as a reader. <3

* * *

**TWELVE | THRAWN**

* * *

As expected, the meeting had mightily tested the capacity of his endurance. 

Feeling intellectually drained and emotionally exhausted, Thrawn had immediately departed from the lavish library and made his way towards the safety of his temporary, underground quarters. As he departed he knew that General Eli Vanto was following him: he could distantly hear his voice over his own, rapid breathing as he passed through the arched, gilded halls of the mansion; by sunlight-soaked greenhouse gardens weaving towards the outside; by the rich-smelling, warmth-throwing kitchens that tempted him to slow down and look in. He did not stop, however: Thrawn was in need of privacy and protection, and he would not rest until he’d arrived in safe refuge. 

As he approaches the stone-covered doorway marking the descent to the older, more organic part of the mansion, he hears a faint voice calling from behind him. It sounds so distant that he can hardly hear it: _“...Thrawn?”_ However, the clamor of voices inside his restless head are louder. 

He proceeds to pass into the underground darkness.

 _Deceived,_ he thinks to himself, with the melodic pattern of Mitth’ras’safis’ voice tumbling through his head until it becomes an uncanny distortion. _I have been deceived. Led astray._ He passes a hand over a scanner to unlock a side-chamber, then steps his way into warm, shrouded darkness. _And by my own brother, no less. Once again: I have made the mistake of trusting him._

In his hurry to move down the dimly-lit hall, he stumbles and nearly falls against the crumbling earth. 

“ _Thrawn!”_

He shakes his head, the thoughts inside of his mind tangling with the echo of Eli’s voice from behind him. _How long did he intend to keep me in the dark?_ Recovering from his fall, he strides with new haste down the lantern-lit passageway. His nostrils flare as he smells dark, rich dirt, and his heart quickens at the familiar sight of the heavy, wood-carved chamber doors. _For how long had he planned his deception? He was in need of accomplices, no doubt. Perhaps, I was always surrounded in silence. Perhaps, I was the only one of my colleagues who was not informed of his plans..._

With a guttural snarl, he pushes open the last, wooden door. 

The room around him is soothing in its familiarity and comfort. Normally, his return to this childhood refuge would be enough to ease even the most frayed set of nerves; however, today, he draws no solace from the surroundings. As he strides across the red-and-gold sands of the floor, all he can think of are Thrass’ elegant, family cloak hovering around his shoulders: reminding them both of bloodline and duty. As he throws himself down on the edge of the empty, Emperor-sized bed, all he can think of is the quiet expanse of the library chamber: a place where Thrass had conceived of his plans in secret, and had prepared to keep Thrawn isolated from them. _It was all orchestrated to keep me out,_ he thinks, fisting shoulder-length hair in his hands. _Thrass never trusted me with his plans. Thrass had no desire for me to ever be included. He would have--_

A soft, knocking sound drifts from the entrance.

“Thrawn?” calls a voice summer-warm with its softness. “It’s me, Eli. I know that you’re upset...but I’d still very much like to come in. May I have your permission to enter?” 

Still holding his head, Thrawn bares his teeth and releases a frustrated hiss. _It’s been so long,_ he thinks once again. Last night--for the first time in several, desolate years--he’d seen the real Eli Vanto again. And it had deeply, to the _core,_ comforted him. Thrawn had been held in the other man’s arms: fallen asleep in his bed, with the human’s reassuring warmth settled around and behind him, his steady hands folded protectively over his beating heart. It had been wonderful; it had been _terrifying_. 

_I don’t recall how to accept friendship,_ he thinks to himself. _I don’t even know...if we’re...friends. Anymore._

Swallowing thickly, Thrawn raises his head. He looks around him: for most of his young life, this room had been his line of support. He’d often come down to the underground and stayed here, in this very dwelling place, to escape Thrass’ endless lectures and Thurfian’s dangerous eyes. Thrawn knows every book on the shelves here most intimately; in fact, finding solace in his own company, he’d read through every flimsy-bound book in the library above. When there was nobody else, Thrawn had hidden himself from the world and its masked expectations by burrowing himself away in this dimly-lit, earth-smelling safety. 

But now: there _is_ someone else. And he is currently standing outside the room, calling Thrawn’s name. 

“Yes,” he replies, drawing a shaking breath and smoothing the ruffled hair between his hands. “Yes, Eli’Vanto. You may enter.” 

The door opens with the gentle snick of metal on wood, and Eli joins him from the hallway. It’s dark, hooding the human’s face in shadow. The underground is always dim, even for Chiss. However, Thrawn can distinguish the clear concern from his companion’s breathing and movements: the way that heat has gathered around his mouth and eyes; the way that his shoulders are moving to accommodate an elevated heartbeat; the way that he is taking careful, ginger steps across the sand, moving quietly and calmly enough not to startle a wild animal. 

“Thrawn,” Eli says, arriving at the foot of the bed. “Can I sit down?” 

Thrawn nods, and the man from Lysatra joins him on the mattress. _How very much things have changed between us,_ Thrawn thinks, feeling the shifting of Eli’s weight as he shifts himself to sit closer to Thrawn. _How you’ve grown from an unsure, insecure young man into a dignified, postured work of art._ He hears his own swallow as Eli’s head comes to rest on his shoulder; he feels his mind _burn_ as Eli’s hand travels around his back and chest, gathering him into the warmth of the shorter man’s side. 

_Safe,_ Thrawn thinks, closing his eyes. Every heartbeat speaks the truth of it to him: _Eli. Eli. Eli!_

“You don’t have to say anythin’ if you don’t want to,” Eli tells him, voice low and soothing as the dim light. “I don’t know exactly what you’re goin’ through, but I can tell that it’s rough.” He nuzzles against Thrawn where his head leans against the Chiss’ stiff shoulder. “Losin’ your loved ones is hard _._ Findin’ out that it was all a rouse? That’s gotta be even _harder.”_

Thrawn feels his stomach twist with an aciding, nauseous feeling. _Grief._

As usual, Eli has arrived at the conclusion of his emotions before even his own assessment. 

“But you did a good job, keepin’ it all together today. I was proud of you: watchin’ you hold through all that political talk, keepin’ a strong presence in front of Bridger.” Thrawn can feel the man smile against the arm of his tunic: the pull and tug of his plush, warm lips, forming his face into the reassuring gesture. “You were more fair to Thrass that I would’ve been, given your situation. And you can rest easy tonight, knowin’ that you’ve done everythin’ possible to make this this whole tangle right and good.” 

_‘Right’ and ‘good?’ Words that I certainly do not deserve!_

Thrawn feels that wave of sickness again as he considers what Eli Vanto implies. He desires to protest to the other man: to tell him about how many people that he’s hunted down, killed and tortured. He desires to argue with him: to tell him that he is wrong, that Thrawn is _beyond_ redemption, that nothing that Thrass has done (or will do in the future) shall _ever_ compare to the wrongs of the Empire in which he has participated for the good of the Ascendency. He desires to shake the other man: to ask him why he is here, even _talking_ with him, after all of the distance and injury that has been said and done. 

But, more than anything else: he desires to be _held._

And so, he sits here on the bed: allowing himself to be held together again by this strange, human man. 

There is a shifting of weight once again, and Thrawn feels himself being drawn down towards the mattress. He finds himself lying upon his side, gazing at Eli, staring into the dark, caring depths of his eyes. The tan-skinned, sun-freckled man blinks at him--lovely and dark through his long, curling eyelashes--and offers him a searching, knowing look of concern. 

“What’s goin’ on in that head?” Eli whispers. He reaches forward, brushes his fingertips through the hair that has fallen over Thrawn’s brow. “What is that beautiful, _cursed_ mind runnin’ off to?” 

Thrawn cannot help but smile a little at that. He sees the expression reflected on Eli’s face. too: relief, that his words are being heard and being offered response; gratitude, that he’s broken through Thrawn’s silent self-beratement. He flinches slightly when Eli’s hand travels down from his hair: smoothing over his brow, running over the bridge of his nose, _ghosting_ over his lips. He finds himself _staring_ as the expression on Eli’s face shifts to fondness; as those fingertips come to settle upon his jawline behind his ear. 

“Can I...kiss you again?” he asks Thrawn softly. 

He nods, and Eli scoots forward. Hand still resting upon his jaw, he places their lips together softly. 

It’s different from that first, rather desperate kiss that they’d shared last night--that fierce, hungry press which contained all their yearning, anger and sadness of separation. Instead, this one is gentle... _romantic._ More than anything, it is the tenderness of an expression that says words like: “ _I am here”_ and “ _You are mine.”_ There is also something of loving, careful protection involved: a silent gesture that says things such as _“Let me care for you now”_ and “ _I hold your heart, like your words, in my hands.”_

Thrawn makes a sound of grateful agreement that can be heard as a throaty, rumbling purr. 

Eli does not draw back from him, as expected of a human man; he does not open his eyes wide with surprise, or push Thrawn away from the foreignness. Instead, he _reaches_ for him: drawing their bodies more closely together, pressing their foreheads and noses in line, sharing breaths as chests become flush and cores move together. Thrawn feels the fierce, aching affection that smolders deep inside of his chest break into a _fire._ And, when Eli Vanto opens his own eyes--lovely, half-lidded and dark--he sees that same passion reflected back there. 

“Thrawn...” Eli whispers, lips brushing to lips. “Let me... _take care of you_ ? Make you feel _better_?...”

Hearing the much-longed for words falling the other man’s mouth makes his pounding heart _crumble_. 

“ _Yes,”_ he breathes in a whisper. “Yes, _please_ …” 

Fantasy folds into reality as the man that he has loved for so long gathers Thrawn into his arms. The purr inside of his chest rumbles louder as Eli’s mouth moves softly over his skin: gently sucking at the line of his jaw, sweetly kissing the space just under his ear, slowly and tenderly teething at the fragile skin of his neck where it descends towards the clavicle. 

_“...Eli…”_

Thrawn struggles to form cohesive thought as Eli’Vanto guides him through the motions. The physical, passionate attraction that he’s long kept in a smolder blooms into a growing fire as the warmth of Eli’s hands, lips and skin begin to move over his own. He flushes when Eli maneuvers him onto his back, climbing astride his lap for more kisses; he shivers when Eli draws him out of his tunic and collar, leaving his torso bare and heavily breathing; he _groans_ when Eli descends upon him, sucking and kissing at the expanse of his chest and teasing one, flaring nipple into his mouth. 

_“Ah!”_ he breathes a noise of ragged surprise at the jolt of desire that shoots through his naval. 

Eli smoothes a hand down his naval. “Okay?” he asks softly. 

Thrawn looks up at him and considers. The lantern light glitters wetly off his plush, slickened lips; the reassurance of his own, heady pleasure glitters back in his dark, half-lidded eyes; the perfectly fit musculature of his lean body ripples beneath the half-undone buttons of his shirt. Thrawn finds himself both impressed and aroused by the level of clear expertise that his former aid is showing as he goes about his amorous motions. It appears that, over time, the student has long become the master. 

_Beautiful,_ Thrawn thinks, smoothing hands over him. _The most exquisite, breath-taking art._

“Yes,” he replies. “For I am with _you_.” 

Eli makes a soft, heavy sound of emotion. “ _Krayt spit,”_ he gasps. “That’s...that’s so fuckin’... _romantic…”_

Thrawn watches as the human shifts his weight back, begins to hastily stripping off his white tunic. He assists Eli in pulling the general’s garment off his heaving chest, tossing it aside to the bedroom floor. Eli’s layered undershirt comes next: a dark, form-fitting garment that reveals the sculpture of his magnificent body. He tugs it quickly off, exposing the heaving expanse of his freckled, tan-dark skin with red-brown areola. There is no denying that the striking, brilliant-white EDF general garments had looked handsome on him; and yet, this is all _nothing_ compared to stunning look of his bare form pressing down and against him, radiating all the heat of the sun-soaked desert. 

_Heat builds along his chest and groin,_ Thrawn observes with shyness. _His muscles now begin to expand and contract. Blood-flow increases outward from his heart: preparing his limbs for the actions of combat. No: perhaps, for the actions of...pleasure._

Carefully, curiously, he watches the patterns of desire unfolding beneath infrared. And, as Thrawn becomes more and more aware of the form and measure of him, he finds himself restlessly thinking of how Eli Vanto would feel beneath his hands. As if reading Thrawn’s mind, Eli stops wrestling with the fly of his trousers. He reaches out to tug at Thrawn’s hand. 

_“Touch me,_ ” he directs. 

And Thrawn finds Eli spreading his own, blue-skinned fingers over his heaving, strong chest. 

At first, Thrawn is frozen in shock at the warmth and texture of his human companion; but then, in absolute _wonder, he_ begins to apply searching pressure with both of his hands. He strokes fingertips over Eli’s pectorals and belly, marvelling at the soft, whisper-thin hairiness of him; he trails down the heaving swell of his lungs and ribs, delighting in the sweet, rich-smelling sweat on his skin. 

“ _Yess,”_ Eli hisses, finally unclasping the trousers. “ _Karabast,_ Thrawn! I thought that you didn't...I mean, you’re _very_ good at this…” 

He seems to be struggling for the best words. _And I do not blame him,_ Thrawn thinks, watching Eli strip himself of his pants and his close-fitting, dark undergarments. _I am having a time of it myself. (_ He attempts to say something besides “ _yes!”_ when Eli motions to undo his trousers; he searches to find other expressions than “ _Ah!”_ when his own boxer-briefs are pulled from his legs.) And yet, Thrawn is just as tongue-tied as Eli: captured heart and soul in the moment, struggling to keep his head above water. 

_An ocean of stars,_ he thinks, welcoming a freckled Eli back in his lap. _One that I would gladly drown in._

“Tell me what feels good for you,” Eli insists, pulling their bodies more closely together. “I want to get this right. I want to make ya feel like-- _Ahh!”_ He gasps as Thrawn’s hand comes forward, stroking at the heated heaviness of Eli’s sex weighing between them. “ _Stars,_ Thrawn! T-that’s-- _please_ keep touchin’ me!” The human organ, while rather unlike his own, appears to respond to a similar kind of stimulation and pleasure. Thrawn feels Eli wrap his arms around his neck and shoulders as he slowly begins ministrations.

 _Soft,_ he thinks, moving the skin of the organ gently up and down. _Warm,_ he thinks, heavy-eyed from the pleasure of the body against him. _Eli Vanto has always been warm. My own, private sun, in the midst of Csilla._

He feels his own shaft give an internal shiver as Eli shudders and groans against him, pulling their bodies more tightly together. _Will he fear me?_ He wonders, thumbing the round, rather mushroom-like head at his organ’s tip.

_Will he be repulsed by what my body offers? Or, perhaps, has he already been with a Chiss?_

The wave of possessiveness that washes over him makes him huff in a fit of inward frustration. 

“What could you _possibly_ be mad about right _now_ ?” Eli laughs, voice hot and breathy against his ear. “Try not to get lost inside of your head. Thrawn: I want you to stay here with me right now. _Be here with me_ right now. Think you can do that?” 

Thrawn hums, considering. He can feel the radiant warmth of Eli’Vanto, pressed against him, body and soul. He can feel the soft, clouding breath of the other man on his lips in the dark. He can feel the rush of blood flow and heart beat, announcing his return interest and pleasure. He can feel the stiff, silky firmness within his hands, rising into a shaft that is solid as stone in its velvet completion. 

He nods, purring. 

“ _Good.”_ Eli draws back to kiss him. 

Thrawn means to increase the pacing of his affections on Eli’s lovely organ---but those words of praise send a hot, unexpected jolt of _excitement_ through him. Still admittedly new to all of this, Thrawn finds himself startled at the pulse of hot, luminous slick that _bursts_ from the slit that protects his inward-furled reproductive organ. In all of his days, he hasn’t witnessed himself doing something quite like... _this._

“Ah, _there_ we are!” Eli whispers in pleasure. He slides both hands between them. “ _That’s_ it. Now you’re _really_ startin’ to be feelin' good.” 

Thrawn blinks with heady surprise and arousal as Eli’s fingertips run over the slit. Beneath the skin, his organ pulses with eager anticipation. He feels somewhat light-headed as Eli coaxes the curved, dexterous cockhead out: unfurling and expanding in length, until it curls around his hand in a fist-like spiral. He pants, gazing at Eli’s face contoured by the glow of his body’s natural bioluminescence. 

“ _Beautiful,”_ Eli croons. He squeezes the twisting, tentacle-like dick gently inside of his fist. “ _Beautiful,_ Thrawn.” 

He is surprised to find himself blinking back tears. 

_“Eli’Vanto,”_ Thrawn says, voice rough and broken. “I did not _think_ ...I could have _never…_ ” He finds his words dissolving into sighs of pleasure as Eli gathers both organs between them, stroking and fisting them into slick pleasure. “ _Yes,”_ he agrees, curving himself around the human’s tight organ. “ _Yesss,”_ he hisses, chest heaving, as Eli begins thrusting against him. “Eli... _Eli….!”_

The orgasm builds fast inside of his chest. He only has seconds until it pours from him, leaking wet like the luminous fluid of his natural slick. 

_“ELI!”_

He cannot tell if he is shouting, or if his heartbeat has simply burst out from his chest. Thrawn gasps for soaked, ragged breath against Eli’s skin, and he feels steady hands combing through his hair. Sobbing, Thrawn holds the other man against him, feeling the rush of release with his first-ever partner. And, in spite of his own, dizzy, light-headed pleasure, he can still feel that the human is hard yet against him. Thrawn shivers, digging his fingernails into Eli’s neck. 

“ _More,”_ he pleads. “You can...I desire... _more…”_

Eli coaxes him down from their arched-back pleasure. Lying now with his face gazing up at the sky, Thrawn feels the human reach down and stroke against his slick again. He shudders at the sensation of hands trailing through the hot, luminous liquid; he _groans_ with pleasure as he feels Eli gather the slick in his hands, slide it down and _behind_ Thrawn towards his ass crack. 

“Tell me what feels good,” Eli says again. His voice is sounding less controlled, more... _broken._ “Tell me...tell me if ya... _want this...?”_

Thrawn feels curiosity and desire bloom as one smooth, exploring finger slips inside of him.

Working against the wet ring of tight muscle, he marvels at the sensation of being worked open. _It should be strange,_ he thinks, feeling the application of steady pressure. _It should be painful._ But of course it wasn’t: this is Eli. _His_ Eli. And the sensation is only something that is drawing even more, surprised pleasure out from his body; it is something that is making the dancing flames in his belly flicker and curl, urging new earnestness from his prone, waiting form. 

_“Y-yes,”_ he replies, word cracking upon release. “Yes. I am... _you are…”_ _Words are, still, insufficient._ _I want everything that you would give me._

Eli makes sounds of kindness and praise as he steadily adds several more fingers. He flutters the pads against sensitive organs; he caresses the burn of the stretch away. With the assistance of Thrawn’s natural slick, it’s only a matter of minutes until he is pumping nearly a fistful of fingers into his ass, the sopping-wet sounds musical to his ears. 

“M’guessin’ that you haven’t done this before,” Eli chuckles, breathy with his own desire. 

“Fair warning: it can feel kinda weird. But, like I said: _I want you to feel good._ I want to take care of ya. So: first sign of distress, I’m gonna pull out. First thing that feels wrong, you up and tell me. This should feel like _pleasure;_ like I’m takin’ good care of ya. If it ain’t, then we’re not goin’ there.” Now deep in his want, Eli has fully dissolved into that twang of Wild-Space accent. 

“Yes,” he replies. 

_I am with you._ _I trust you,_ he thinks. _Beyond all others. Beyond everything._

Eli groans--a sound between utmost pleasure and pain--and crawls out from where he is kneeling between Thrawn’s bent legs. There is a warm, wet suction of sound as the human man withdraws his hand, wiping it carelessly on the bedspread before rising. He comes to standing on the sandy floor before them, pushing Thrawn’s knees gently apart and bracketing them on his lovely, dark hips. Eli wraps his hands underneath his parted legs, tugging at the meat of his thighs softly. Intuitively, Thrawn follows the guidance and scoots himself forward until his pelvis is flush with the end of the mattress. 

He cranes his head to look at Eli Vanto. His flushed, heaving chest; his proud, leaking cock; his dark, glistening eyes; his soft, parted lips. 

_You are beautiful,_ Thrawn thinks, echoing Eli’s sentiment. _You are beautiful. The most beautiful art I have ever beheld._

Eli makes eye contact with him, as if asking permission one final time. Thrawn nods, allowing his head to fall back towards the mattress, uncertain what is next in store. What he finds with the first stroke of connection is _pleasure--_ the feeling of being held and protected by Eli. With the second connection--the hot press of flesh, the glide past his entrance--he feels _consumed._ Touched by, filled with, the other man’s presence. 

_Eli. Eli. ELI!_ Thrawn gasps and arches his back as the other man’s pelvis slides flush against him.

 _“Breathe,”_ Eli directs, soothing his hands over Thrawn’s twitching hips. “That’s it, Thrawn: _breathe_ for me. Deep inhale, deep exhale... _yess.”_

His understanding of the world around him is shifting. Thrawn feels every space, every _molecule_ inside of him, being surrounded and gathered into his lover. He becomes aware that the distance that he’d driven between them has been obliterated: now, suspended in united, bodily pleasure, it is almost as though they’d never been separate. He groans as Eli shifts backs, moving inside and slightly withdrawing; he _sighs_ as Eli shifts forward, driving himself to be fully sheathed within him again. 

_“Ha...ha..._ Good?” Eli pants, hands calm and steadying upon him. 

Thrawn nods his head. He exhales, fists his hands into the sheets. “ _Good,”_ he rasps. “ _Very_.” 

Eli’s eyes sparkle in agreement as he bends over Thrawn and takes hold of his hips. 

At first, the pacing is caring and tender: Eli sets up a rhythm of moving against him that strokes their limbs and navels together, pausing to reward each sound he makes with a kiss. But then--as the heat starts to build within him until his whole form is _blazing--_ he begins to lose some of the gentleness in his control. Never once does Thrawn feel as though Eli is losing his grip on the situation; but he _does_ begin to marvel at the way that spittle clings to his lips; at the way that his nipples have grown dark and rigid; in the way that his hips, chest and legs are beginning to shiver as he pounds against him with escalating tension. 

“ _Thrawn,”_ Eli huffs, gritting his name from between clenched teeth. “ _God,_ you’re perfect! Your body, here... _mine…_ ” 

Thrawn could not agree more. He has found that _this_ form of pleasure is equally good to the earlier touching: the angle provides him with a view of Eli’s undulating and lovely hips, and _delights_ him by striking against his more sensitive organs. He groans with desire as Eli pulls his knees even higher, angling their posture more towards the ceiling; he _sobs_ with passion as Eli begins to drive repeatedly against his prostate, hitting him over and over again with sharp sensations of pleasure. 

“T-thrawn,” Eli stammers, rotating his shaking hips in a circle. “I’m _very_ close. Think m’gonna come.” 

Thrawn’s own, re-awakened organ gives its own throb of head-spinning pleasure. He struggles to take hold of his tongue, force it into coherent words and thoughts so that he might give permission to his generous partner. It takes more than once, in his blissed-out and hazy nature. He gazes up at Eli, lost in the swirling feelings of lust and adoration.

 _“Yes,”_ he says, slipping into Sy Bisti. “ _Y_ _ibu. Anguwemo. Eli._ ” 

The human releases with a gasp of breath and a stutter of hips. 

A feeling of warm, liquid pleasure presses against his internal organs as Thrawn feels the humans’s spend begin to fill him. Then, as Eli Vanto draws out of him, he feels the hot, running pleasure of drainage and spattering finish falling upon his bare, sensitive skin. It makes his gluteal muscles spasm and jump, feeling the running soak of his seed against him; it makes his chest clench and his heart _burn_ , sucking in air and gasping for breath. 

“ _Fuck!”_ Eli hisses, tugging at his cock until it leaks free of creamy, white spend. _“Fuckin’...Sith-Hells!...”_

Thrawn gazes at him, absorbing each and every contraction of his lovely face. Then, suddenly, his _own_ organ spasms and flickers--releasing a second and sympathetic wave of his own, glowing spend. Thrawn gasps with surprise and pleasure as the sensation of a second, much-lighter orgasm rolls through his body, drawn out by the experience of watching his partner release his own pleasure. 

_“...Nice,”_ Eli pants, staggering forward and kissing at Thrawn’s bent thigh and hip. “ _Very_ nice.” 

He runs an appreciative hand through the new, luminous layer of slick, making Thrawn buck and twitch with sensation. 

“Heh heh. _Sorry_.” Eli Vanto joins him on the bed, with a cheerful expression that does not suggest that he is sorry at all. “I forget that ya’ll ever get more than one. It’s a neat party trick.” He flops down beside Thrawn, meeting his searching eyes with a twitching smile. “Oh, don’t gimme _that._ You _know_ that I’ve only loved you, forever. We’ll talk it all over sometime.” 

Thrawn’s chest tightens with emotion as he gazes at the man lying on the pillow beside him. 

Eli, eyes growing concerned, rolls over to face him and places a hand on his chest. “What? Not alright?” his expression flickers in worry. “I told ya, you’ve just gotta tell me if anythin’ felt wrong. I wanted you to feel _good,_ and if I did somethin’ that--” 

“I love you.” 

Eli stops. His eyes scan over Thrawn’s face, as if he hadn’t been sure that he’d heard him clearly. Then, heat blooming upon his cheeks, he shifts his body so that they are closer together. Thrawn’s heart hammers dangerously inside of his chest as he feels Eli’s hand stroking over his heart, pressing and kneading upon the soft skin. The human man bites down on his lip, chewing anxiously at the soft, kiss-swollen flesh. His gaze flickers upwards, meeting Thawn’s with a tentative gaze. 

“....I love you,” Thrawn says again. “I...I _adore_ you.” 

The words sound foreign, strange and vulnerable upon his lips. And yet, they are exactly honest and fully precise: in spite of it all, he adores this man. Through all of the loneliness and betrayal, he’s learned to trust Eli Vanto. And more than that: trust _in_ him. Rely on him, knowing that he will follow through, or fail while certainly doing his utmost. There is nobody across the stars who is more worthy, more reliable, than the man before him; there is nobody else that he wants, that he _needs,_ with the same clarity as his former aid. Breathing in tandem at the revelation, Thrawn allows those words to sink in. 

After staring at him for a long, tense silence, Eli Vanto smiles. 

“I was hopin’ you’d say that,” he replies softly. “I didn’t exactly expect it...but I…” He closes his eyes, exhales through his nose. When he opens his long, curling lashes again, they are clinging with a line of glittering tears. “ _Thanks.”_

Thrawn laughs softly. 

“You are offering _me_ words of appreciation?” he says, reaching for Eli, pulling the man towards him. “You have followed me here; you have made me a home. You have shown me your heart, held me in your hands. If there is _anyone_ worthy of laud and affection, it is _you,_ general.” He swallows, hands shaking as Eli presses his soft lips against him. "My general." 

“Looks like those words are finally comin’ back,” Eli teases. "Mister ever-eloquent." 

He presses their heads together, soft and yet firm. He slides a hand behind Thrawn's neck, cupping their heads together. He breathes gingerly against his flushed lips.

“I love you too, Thrawn. But, of course--like everythin' else--you already knew that.”

They lie there, entwined, in the quiet darkness. Thrawn finds that, in time, his heart ceases racing; that it settles instead into something comforting and steady, beating aligned with Eli's quiet breath. Time passes, and the human begins to fall asleep. Thrawn stays awake, watching the light moving over his features. He will never tire of studying Eli; he will never again know art that is outside of him. Gradually, as the shadows lengthen and the afternoon grows long, he finds himself imprinting the image into his mind: the look of his trusted lover, tangled within the sheets, at home in the place that has once been his shelter. As darkness begins to creep at his own eyes, Thrawn realizes that Eli has woven himself into the fabric of his own story: grafted his colors into Thrawn's foundational line. Sleepily, he pulls the human man against him. He feels the curve of his spine; the warmth of his skin; the beat of his heart. 

_No. I did not know that yet, Eli'Vanto. But now: I shall certainly never forget._

* * *


	13. Thrawn

* * *

**THIRTEEN | THRAWN**

* * *

Snow falls. Passion builds. Politics begin to unfold. 

And time passes. 


	14. EZRA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra and Vah'nya make strides in their training. Thrawn relays an important message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're rapidly approaching the end.

* * *

**FOURTEEN | EZRA**

* * *

Vah’nya’s breath plumes around her face like a hovering cloud as she leans to inspect the glowing crystal. 

Jagged and purple-blue in its crystalline edges, it sings out to both of the Force-users as though it is alive. When she reaches for it, clawed fingertips trembling, it lurches towards her as though it is someone returning home to the waiting arms of a partner; when she pulls it out from the hollow, waving it towards him in triumph, Ezra feels a burst of pride and wonder unlike anything that he’s experienced before. 

“Ezra’Bridger!” she cries, hurrying towards him. “I think that I’ve found it!” 

Ezra makes space for the Chiss woman as she joins him in the arched, echoing chamber of the long-abandoned Jedi temple. Huffing with excitement, she cradles the raw kyber crystal carefully in her cupped hands, treasuring it for the priceless, rare artifact that it is. Light dances across her palms, making her deep-blue skin appear to be almost purple, as it catches the color of the radiant gem. When she looks up at Ezra, it sparkles off of her scarlet-red eyes, making them glitter with sharp happiness. 

“This is it, right?” she breathes, knowing the answer. “The one for my _Tocashu’hitz.”_

Ezra grins, nodding at her. “Yes,” he replies. “Your kyber crystal. For crafting your Lightsaber.”

It seems odd, being anyone’s mentor--let alone _Lieutenant Vah’nya--_ who is smarter, wiser, and older than him _(not to mention, far more competent as an adult)._ But, just as he’d discovered of all the other Navigators on Csilla, there appears to be some kind of... _block_ within her when it comes to willingly using the Force outside of maneuvering light-speed jumps with their ships. Over his months of study, listening and exploration, Ezra has yet to determine _why_ the Chiss as a people seem to “lose sight” after their thirteenth year of application. However, with a promising and determined teacher like Vah’nya, he is certain that they will someday track down the reason together. 

And training her in the Jedi way, just as Kanan had once taught him, is one place for them to try and start. 

“It’s _beautiful,”_ Vah’nya says appreciatively. She turns the crystal over in her hands, eyes pulsing scarlet-dark with color. “Does this mean that my _Tocashu’hitz_ will illuminate purple?” She looks up at him through those long, dark eyelashes, and it makes Ezra’s heart give its usual flutter. 

“Possibly,” Ezra shrugs. “But I don’t know too much about kyber lore, really. Kanan always said that he thought ‘personality influences the color.’ But then again, his teachers told him something different.” 

_Kanan always said…_ The words don’t hurt him as deeply to say anymore. After the first few months of living on Csilla, teaching and training with the young Navigators, Ezra had found himself more and more approaching the memories. At first, it was terribly hard: he’d find himself having nightmares of that last moment, seeing his father-figure and Master spinning away into ashes. But then, in time, he began to remember the better moments again: sneaking slices of meiloorun when Hera wasn’t looking; sparring practice while they both wore blindfolds; learning how to hover objects over Zeb’s unknowing head. Hearing words like _“I’m proud of you, Ezra,”_ and _“Just look how you’ve grown.”_

The memories build him up now, as he tries his very best to mentor and train alongside Vah’nya. 

“Personality, huh?” Vah’nya asks, eyes narrowing in sudden interest. She elbows him, catching Ezra by surprise, and making him exhale a wheeze of pent-up breath. “Why doesn’t yours show up as _booger-green,_ then?” She asks, faking a curious expression. Ezra opens his mouth to reply, but she finishes her taunting first. “Oh! That’s right: it _does!”_

She grins at him wickedly, and Ezra feigns annoyance. 

Outwardly, he will play the part of a patient teacher: inwardly, however, he will _delight_ in each small victory of her playfulness. Over the months that have now become years, his relationship with Vah’nya has grown into expressions of friendliness, appreciation, and even flirtatious humor. And Ezra, finding his long-standing interest blooming into a fully-fledged, head-over-heels crush, can only hope that someday she will take interest in him on a romantic level. 

“And yours should be _brown_ ,” he quips. “Because of the _shit_ that you constantly make me put up with.” 

Vah’nya laughs, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Ezra beams as the pair of them make their way out of the hall, savoring the warmth of her presence and joy of their search. 

It had taken them the better part of a year to finally track down the first _(and, so far as they know, only)_ temple within the Ascendency region. There had been no record on Csilla about any Chiss High Republic Jedi; in fact, there had not even been any _mention_ within the _entire library_ about Force-users beyond those in Navigation. Thrawn told Ezra that he suspected foul-play, and that someone of a high family rank must have gone about the task of erasing Chiss memory. Such an idea had only become more likely as the Mitth brothers had delved deep into Force politics, finding that someone had indeed erased all story and history of Chiss Sky Walkers from record. Again: Ezra knows that this game of power and politics is beyond his reach. But he still does what he can--that is, training young Chiss alongside Vah’nya, helping maintain or recover skills. For, if Lieutenant Vah’nya can, then perhaps others will. 

“So, what do you think?” she asks, slipping the crystal into her silver snowsuit’s breast pocket. “Time for celebration? Meet up at the tap cafe?” 

Ezra feels his cheeks warm as he thinks of their last time drinking together. The buzzed, loose-lipped human had gushed to her about his family and friends, telling her that he sincerely believed that he’d see them again soon. With all of his heart, he’d described what he’d missed about Hera, Sabine, Zeb, even _Chopper._ And with tears in his eyes, he’d told her even more stories about losing his parents and Kanan: about home on Lothal, and about how he missed that red-tinted sunrise. Predictably, it had ended with her carrying him slung muzzily over her shoulder, dumping him onto his bed and tucking him like a child in before departing. 

He had been too mortified to even check his comm for her teasing messages the next morning. 

“Ah, _right_ ,” Ezra says, rubbing the back of his head. “You bet, time for some celebration. Just let me call Thrawn--” he is caught by surprise with her bubble of laughter. “--and-- _what?_ \--Don’t you think that he’d like to celebrate with us? I know that he’s very proud of our efforts.” 

Vah’nya snorts, tossing her long, woven hair over her shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But it’s _Thrawn.”_ She’s still grinning at him as they clamber onto the waiting speeder. “I know that he’s like family to you now, but I’m never going to get over it.” She settles into the driver’s position, scooting forward so that Ezra can climb on behind her; and, as he slides onto the leatheris platform, he can’t help but to thank the _stars_ that this seat brings them so close together. _“Hold on,”_ she commands, grasping one of his hands and placing it on the swell of her hips. “I’m going to double-down on the speed for our way back to town!” 

Head spinning and heart bursting with pleasure, Ezra nods eagerly and heeds her instructions. 

With a roar, the wilderness landscape moves into a blur: blue-white, rugged mountains; red-brown, naked trees; grey-green, fuzzy cedars. Ezra whoops loud with laughter and tightens his grasp as they rush past the structure of towering stone, leaving behind them the Jedi temple. Snow hisses and bursts underneath the hover-blades as they dash across the landscape, scattering clods of ice and spooking up the occasional antler-bird. As the pass by the booming, ice-cracking lake, Ezra breathes in the smell of late summer on Csilla--much like the rest of the snow-covered year, but with a _distinct_ sense of things that are blooming and _living._ As they glide beneath the towering archway of snowy pine branches, Ezra sighs into the comfort of the familiar landscape. 

His hands squeeze gently upon Vah’nya’s hips. 

_Constructing a Lightsaber,_ he thinks, picturing Vah’nya dexterous hands busy at work. _What will she choose?_ The Chiss Lieutenant has taken to often carrying a long, staff-like ice pick with her, and Ezra wonders if she will make the white-wooded weapon into a double-sided ‘saber. _Now that would give me a run for my credits!_ He grins, thinking of battling her striking out with both edges. _I can’t wait until we can duel with our proper weapons._

Hopefully, he will be able to keep up. 

“Brace yourself, Ezra’Bridger!” the Chiss woman yells. Ezra doesn’t have time to ask what that means before she _floors_ a booted foot down on the ignition, bringing the speeder roaring into an even higher frequency. He lurches forward and wraps both hands around her belly, feeling her laughter ripple through her form and warming the pair where they cling together. “Oh, don’t worry, youngling!” she teases, veering sharply with the speeder to the left. “I could drive this whole course with my _eyes closed.”_

 _“Don’t,”_ Ezra pleads into her snowsuit. “I want to keep this head. I kinda like it.” 

Vah’nya shakes with laughter again. To his delight and pleasure, she drops one hand to squeeze against his. Their fingers knit together, cold from the temperature and the bite of the wind, and interlock in a warm, welcome comfort that keeps him anchored against the curve of her back. 

“Kinda like it too,” she replies archily. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to work any less hard on hacking it off... _Master.”_

Ezra grins, shivering and holding on to her tight. He prays that she cannot feel the blush of his skin as it spreads from his face down his chest toward his hands; he prays that she has _not_ been meditating as she has been instructed, so that she can sense even the source and direction of his current feelings. 

_Some things,_ he decides, _are better kept as secrets._

Vah’nya pulls them into a sharp turn again, and Ezra feels himself being jostled. He realizes that she is deliberately messing with him, trying to get a reaction out of the reckless speed and titled angles. But he also knows that she has shown a magnificent triumph in their work today, and right now, he does not feel like being the scolding teacher. _Maybe someday I’ll get this whole Jedi Master thing down right,_ he thinks to himself, hugging onto the softness of the Chiss woman in front of him, feeling the cold blades of breeze on his exposed cheeks. _Or, maybe, I’ll just always be one lesson away from disaster._

_But maybe that’s who I am anyway._

Ezra nuzzles his head comfortably against Vah’nya. It is true that he has grown within these last few years of leadership on Csilla. No longer a gutter Loth-rat, he is now serving as a mentor, a teacher, and even an ambassador for his human race. He’s improved his skills as a warrior, his voice as a speaker, and now, he even considers himself a reliable friend. 

_But I’m not even thirty!_ Ezra protests at himself inside of his head. _There’s so much time left! No way that I have to ‘grow up’ all at once. There’s plenty of time left for me to mature._

And _that_ much is certain; for he can hardly keep his expression straight as he leans against Vah’nya, relishing in the pleasure of their closeness, exploring the feeling of her hand entwined with his own. If Ezra closes his eyes, he can imagine that they are walking on a beach somewhere--warm, bright waves, and tropical--and that they are on their way out to dinner. He sighs dreamily, thinking of all the people that he could introduce her, all the places that he would like to show her. But only, of course, is she is willing. 

Vah’nya takes a sharp, sudden turn with the speeder, and a splash of snowfall dumps into his hair. “Stay sharp, Bridger!” she calls playfully. “Don’t want you falling asleep back there!” 

Humming with agreement, Ezra squeezes her hand. _You’re right. I can dream about those kinda things later. For now, I’m just going to be here, enjoying this moment._ And that’s when the large chunk of ice on top of his head begins to melt in earnest: trickling frigid and wet down his neck in earnest. Ezra yelps, releasing Vah’nya and flailing at the cold water inside of his jacket. 

“Yeah, no chance of _that!”_

* * *

Thrawn, Thrass, and Eli are waiting for them when they arrive at the tap cafe several hours later. 

Ezra steps into the bar, shaking snow from his hair, and looks around at the familiar space. Unlike many of the crystalline, jewel-like buildings among the capitol, this battered, old pub is made entirely out of solid, aromatic, knot-riddled wood. The floorboards creak underneath the slush of his wet boots as Ezra makes his way towards the long, polished bar. He feels more than sees Vah’nya enter behind him, tossing snowflakes out of her hair, and he blushes in spite of himself as he joins the others. 

“Success, I take it?” Thrawn asks him in greeting. 

He’s looking... _better,_ these days. More _himself,_ somehow. The Chiss man has grown out his silky, raven-dark hair until it is long enough to pass his shoulders, and he wears it in that same, elegant central-part. There is a softness to his eyes, a warmth to his cheeks, and a brightness to his vivid, red eyes. Ezra has no doubt that it is because of his reuniting with Eli Vanto--who, no longer clad in the whites of work uniform, is dressed casually enough to look like a cowboy, and lean against his partner with the casual ease of someone who knows of returned affection. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe!” Ezra replies. He raises a hand, waving over a flagon. “Vah’nya was _extraordinary_. She passed every test without hesitation and made her way to the crystal in no time at all.” 

The woman settles on Ezra’s other side. She nods at the Mitth brothers, mouth curving in suppressed amusement at seeing such notoriously tight-laced and high-profile Chiss settled at the bar in casual clothing. “Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” she greets, tilting her head towards them. “Mitth’ras’sifis. General Eli’Vanto.” The last, being a long-term friend of the lieutenant, rises and reaches out towards her. She embraces him, spending a moment too long for Ezra’s liking inside of his arms. “Thank you for meeting us here.” 

“Thank you for bein’ _wonderful,”_ Vanto replies, releasing her and squeezing her hands. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else, given the circumstances.” 

Vah’nya beams and squeezes his hands back, and Ezra forces his expression to not sour. There had been a time, he’s almost certain, when the two of them had been very close. _Intimate,_ even. He doesn’t know the details, but he’s not certain that he wants to, however. Even though Ezra is aware that Thrawn and Vanto are clearly together and happy, he can’t help that small, jealous beast from grumbling inside him each time she gives Vanto that secret, shy look. 

“The circumstances?” she asks, mouth quirking in amusement. “I know that we’ve all been hoping for this, but I didn’t realize that building my lightsaber was some kind of national holiday.” 

Vanto’s eyes flick over towards Thrawn, who stiffens with surprise for a moment. Then, clearing his throat and recovering, the Chiss man directs his gaze at Ezra. “Ezra’Bridger. Did you happen to read any of the messages on your comm this afternoon?” he asks, voice far too casual for the human’s liking. Ezra blinks, shaking his head: he’d been so caught up in riding home on the speeder with Vah’nya that his brain hadn’t left time for anything else. “ _Ah._ Very well, then. Perhaps it is time for your inspection?” 

Ezra shoots a look at Vah’nya, who seems just as confused. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out the slim device and clicks open to the first message. 

> **_TRANSMISSION 01:14:41 FROM _UNCLE__ **
> 
> **_EZRA: SEE HOLO ATTACHED. IT APPEARS THAT YOUR FAMILY HAS FINALLY FOUND YOU._ **

His eyes snap upward, landing on the waiting figures. Thrass, Thrawn and Eli are all smiling: the first, with that charming, enigmatic grace; the second, with that slightest increase of tension in his thin lips and eyes; the final, beaming at him with an open-mouthed, lopsided grin that glimmers in the low tap cafe light. With a gasp, Ezra raises the comm to the restless Vah’nya. 

“No way?!” she exclaims, grasping it. “Ezra! Is this--does that mean---are _these_ your Spectres?” 

When she holds up the comm, Ezra feels his eyes water. 

Hera Syndulla--slim, strong, and older--is smiling softly at the holo recording. She is balancing a _child_ upon her hip, and with his bright eyes and roguish smile, there is no _doubt_ who the father is: Ezra’s departed master, Kanan Jarrus. He feels his heart clench with emotion as he realizes that the giggling boy is aged the same number of years that he has been gone from his family. Watching the child be hoisted higher, his eyes are drawn back to Hera. She looks just as fierce and athletic as ever before, and yet ,there is a new sense of weariness, _loss,_ to those eyes. 

“Thrawn,” she says, looking sternly at the camera. “If you are hearing this, then I have succeeded in sending you a message through your Wild Space and Chaos. I’m looking for Ezra Bridger: _my son.”_

Ezra chokes on the sob that passes his lips. He raises a hand, passes it through the blurry holo. 

“If you are still with him, or know anything about where he is, _please:_ I beg of you: _pass this on to him._ ” The pleading words do not fall easily from her mouth, and Ezra can see her clear, lasting distaste for the former Grand Admiral on her lips. “If you can contact me about Ezra, then I will make certain that you are given fair trial for your Imperial crimes.” She looks at the child on her hip, then looks back at the camera. “We all have lost so much,” she says softly. “Even you. Even those in your Empire.”

Ezra swallows thickly. Hera’s voice becomes firm once again.

“I believe that we can strike a deal, you and I. You, of all people, respect a good, strategic bargain. I propose that, if you are ready and willing to re-connect me with Ezra, then I will be your ally from within the Rebellion. I will do my utmost to make sure that when--not if, _when--_ we finally contact your people, that I will treat you with fairness in spite of your crimes. With my word standing behind you, you will be given a new chance at redemption. You can use that sharp mind of yours to help our alliance succeed against the Empire rather than taking us apart from within. You could try out this whole ‘rebels’ thing for yourself, and see what the other side has to offer.” The child on her hip chatters. He fists into her orange jumpsuit, clinging to her with trusting hands. _“Please,”_ Hera says once again, sounding urgent. “I need the last of my family returned.” 

And it’s at that moment when the holo pans out, taking in _all_ of them standing around her. 

The appear to be in a leafy, jungle-like clearing on the golden-skied planet of Lira San. There is his sister, Sabine, and the white-cloaked Ahsoka: both of them looking far worse for the wear, but waving at the recording with cheer nonetheless. There is his brother Zeb, and his-- _um, boyfriend?--_ Kallus, standing with arms wrapped around each other: a blue-silver Lasat babe hangs from Zeb’s shoulder, teething at Kallus’ hand where it rests. There is Chopper, waving his twig-like droid arms; there is former commander Rex, so lined with age that he is practically squinting. There are even a few, additional humans that he’s never met before: and yet, Ezra knows all at once that there are his family. And that he loves them, and _aches_ to be with them again. 

“How did you get this?” Ezra whispers, receiving the holo from Vah’nya’s hands. 

He turns to face his former nemesis, who is gazing at him with a kind of softness that is usually only reserved for Vanto. Thrawn clears his throat once again, folding his long hands inside of his lap. “It was a surprise,” he replies, “but not altogether unexpected. I have long believed it would only be a matter of time before the persistent rebels found you again. And I have never experienced General Syndulla to be anything less than a force to be reckoned with.” His lips twitch, and Ezra senses a smile once again. “Personally, I am curious how my comm device was revived once again. The fact that your general was able to contact my former frequency, let alone my device...it is highly improbable. Even I was under the impression that it had been crushed beyond restoration during our foray with the purrgil.” Thrawn slips a hand inside of his cloak to draw out an old, bent Imperial comm. 

“So...it’s a miracle of the Force?” Ezra asks, wiping away hot tears with his hand. 

“Perhaps. And yet, also a miracle of combined technology and...pyrotechnics,” Thrawn replies, tucking the comm device away again. “It appears to me that whoever was able to get this connection open again must have applied massive _,_ concussive force to several kinds of deactivated Imperial droids. Whoever you have on your team as a slicer, I must applaud their skills at mechanics. This kind of cybernetic work is nothing short of what I would call _art.”_

Ezra’s eyes open wide. He grins, looking back at the grainy, blue holo recording. 

“ _Sabine,”_ he says fondly, sniffing back tears and beaming at his Mandalorian sister. “I always knew that I could count on you.” He gazes down at the moving family portrait, excitement already filling him at the prospect of asking her to tell the story. More likely than not, it would involve wondrous travel, daring adventure, and dangerous feats of near-death survival. He closes his hand, turning the holo off. 

“This is... _I just_ …” Ezra cannot contain the mixture of feelings inside of him. He closes his eyes, squeezing tears, and feels a hand rest against his shoulder. “It’s... _wonderful_. Almost... _too much.._.” 

He expects it to be Vah’nya, but it is the arms of his unlikely ally and friend _Thrawn_ that encircle around his trembling shoulders instead. 

“I am grateful that they have found you, Ezra,” Thrawn’s low and sonorous voice flows from around them. “I am aware now more than ever what it means to have a family. What it means to be lost, and to be restored to that relationship once again.” Awash in emotions, Ezra buries his head in the other man’s chest. He feels himself being held in a safe, secure way that he hasn’t felt since the loss of his father; since the loss of Kanan. “I have already returned a message to the general. She and her crew are being guided here now by some of our finest of Navigators. And, once they arrive, they will be held as our most esteemed and honored guests.” 

Ezra gives a soft sob. He fists his hands into Thrawn’s loose-fitting sweater, hardly believing that this is all happening. 

“And when it is time for me to answer in trial, I shall willingly go with your rebellion.” 

Forcing himself to draw his face back, Ezra stares up at Thrawn and sniffs. “ _What?_ You’ve already been on trial here, I dunno, _seven_ times since we’ve arrived, and you still think that I’m gonna force you to do it all again?” He laughs wetly, rubbing at one swollen eye. “Thrawn, you were once a _really_ bad dude. But so you’re more than that, now. You’ve become a lot better!” 

Thrawn’s smile contains the softness of gratitude and affection, along with the noticeable marr of pain. 

“There is much that I have yet to answer for,” he replies, sounding steady and resolute. “I have committed crimes against many people, and many have died by my hand while in the Empire. As everyone knows: this should not go unattended, nor should it be taken lightly. When it is time, I will answer for what I have done. I may not be able to make atonement for all of the grief I have caused, but I will do my utmost to make things right.” He hesitates, then places a hand on Ezra’s shoulder again. “Besides, Nephew. I would face justice and trial, and yes, even death, on your behalf.” 

Ezra feels his cheeks flush with embarrassed affection. And this time, he is the one who hugs Thrawn. 

Wrapping his arms around the alien man who had once endeavored to kill him and his family, he embraces the man that he now knows as kin. Ezra feels the other man stiffen momentarily, then chuckle with easing comfort as their bodies lean together. They stand there holding each other in the low lighting of the tap cafe, all eyes upon them, not _one_ of them dry. And, after Ezra finds himself feeling sturdy and stable enough to pull away, he draws back to find that the other is actually grinning. 

“Quite the long way we’ve come, huh?” he laughs, punching lightly into Thrawn’s belly. 

Grunting with surprise, Thrawn nods his head. He raises a hand to smooth Ezra’s wild hair back into alignment--much like he would do for himself--and guides him back towards the waiting barstool. “Across the stars, to be sure,” the Chiss answers politely. He takes his seat next to General Vanto, who looks to be teary underneath the band of shade cast by his cowboy hat. “I suppose that this is, now, an occasion for _dual_ celebration.” He looks over at Vah’nya, features warm with affection. “Not only are we seeing Ezra being brought back to his people, we are also seeing the start of a whole, new future beginning with our own Chiss.” 

Thrawn reaches towards the bar, taking the glowing, pink shot that Vanto had ordered within his hands. He looks sideways at his partner, who smiles at him in encouragement. 

“To Lieutenant Vah’nya!” he says warmly, raising the glass. “And to our dearest friend, Ezra’Bridger.” 

* * *

**END**

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this story! I hope that you liked it. I have lots of ideas for how it could continue, but this was a natural pausing point for the first chapter. If there is some interest, I can always add a prologue with a few outtakes/snippets feat. Uncle Sam and the rest. Cheers! Stay healthy!


	15. ART BY SEMPAIKO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Night Sky"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're the very best, Sempai!!!! Make sure to check out Sempaiko's other artwork at her [Tumblr](https://sempaiko.tumblr.com)! She made me this beautiful gift to go with Chapter 13 for my birthday this year. Please remember to always check with artists for permission before posting their artwork anywhere. Thank you!
> 
> ((For reasons that I am not entirely certain of, I played a lot of "Night Sky" by CHVRCHES on repeat while I was writing the Thranto portions of my fic. Now it holds a special place in my heart.))

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! If you have time and are willing to share, please leave your comments and kudos. That's the motivation keeping me going and writing fics: knowing that other people are enjoying them, too!


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